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MIDSUMMER 


MADNESS 


BY 



ELLEN OLNEY KIRK 

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BOSTON 

JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 
1884 




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Copyright, 1SS4 

James R. Osgood and Company 


All rights reserved 




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Press of Rockwell and Churchill, 39 Arch St. 


i 


§ 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter 

I. 

Mr. Haxtoun’s Great Work . 

• 

Page 

5 

II. 

A Looker-on in Vienna . 

• 

14 

m. 

Table-talk .... 

• 

36 

IV. 

Mother and Son 

• 

48 

V. 

Med hurst 

• 

65 

VI. 

“Whistle Her Off and Let IIer 

Down 



the Wind 11 

• 

73 

VII. 

“XOTHING, IF NOT CRITICAL 11 . 

• 

81 

VIII. 

A Xigiit in June 

• 

101 

IX. 

Mrs. Haxtoun’s Troubles 

• 

119 

X. 

A Fourth-of-July Fete . 

• 

131 

XI. 

Mrs. Dalton Takes a Morning Walk . 

166 

XII. 

“The Play’s the Thing” 

• 

185 

XIII. 

“A Woman’s Reason” 

• 

199 

XIV. 

Two Lovers 

. 

218 


4 


CONTENTS. 


•Chapter 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVTII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

xxn. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 


A Star-Chamber Matter . 

Mr. Haxtoun's Diplomacy . 

A Sonata by Beethoven 

“Fair Rivals” 

Rodney Commits Himself to For- 
tune 

A Picnic 

A Soiree Dramatique . . . . 

Too Clever by Half . . . . 

“Had I Wist Before I Ivist” 

Medhurst Cuts the Gordian Knot . 

A Lost Opportunity . 

Cecil Comes Up to Town . 


Page 

232 

247 

258 

279 

288 

298 

313 

324 

347 

359 

372 

383 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER I, 


MR. HAXTOUN S GREAT WORK, 



R. FRANCIS MEDHURST had enjoyed so 


few chances of bettering his fortunes that 
when an opportunity for some little change of scene 
and freedom of action came knocking at his door 
he was half inclined to find something intrusive and 
impertinent in the summons. Mr. Hill, editor of 
the “ Forum,” a New York daily paper to which the 
young man was attached in a very subordinate ca- 
pacity, sent for him, saying that, having been asked 
to recommend a secretary for a gentleman by the 
name of Haxtoun, living on the Delaware, he had 
named him, Medhurst. Good abilities, classical 
acquirements, a practical knowledge of German and 
habits of systematic energy, were the requirements. 
If found qualified in these respects the young 
fellow was to take up his residence with his patron, 
and assist to the utmost of his ability in preparing a 
work for the press. As for salary, Mr. Hastoun 
would make a fair offer to begin wilh, and, should 
his assistant prove competent and valuable, he was 
ready to pay almost any reasonable amount for the 


6 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


sake of getting his book off his hands speedily and 
satisfactory. The editor went on to remark that 
Medhurst was to call that day at the Brevoort House, 
between five and six o’clock, and conclude arrange- 
ments and terms with the gentleman himself. 

“Do you actually think it would be worth while 
to give up my position here, and enter a servitude like 
that?” Medhurst asked, with an air of indignation. 

“ I should advise you to try it. It is your object, 
I believe, to get some few thousands ahead, and you 
have little chance of doing more than to cover your 
expenses here, while in the country your living will 
not cost } T ou a stiver. Try it, at all events. I shall 
not fill your place for a few months, and if you 
can’t stand it you may return and find a hearty 
welcome.” 

“ What is the great work to be? ”•» 

“ The subject is the epics of all nations, I believe. 
That does not sound so bad.” 

“ I think it sounds very bad.” 

“Don’t make yourself too great for occasions. 
You isolate yourself by } T our pride and 3’our fastidi- 
ousness. That is one reason why I think this sort 
of an opening favorable to your interests ; your 
silent contempt of journalism makes itself felt 
among us. You are too scrupulous, too ready to be 
disgusted at the merest trifle, — in fact, you’re too 
much of an idealist. You’re better fitted for literary 
life, and this experience will put you in the way of 
finding out your actual bias. Come, now, a hun- 
dred dollars a month, and your expenses paid, is 
not such an every-day sort of offer that you car 
afford to wear those airs of superiority Go to the 


MR. HAXTOUN'S GREAT WORK. 


7 


Brevoort House, assume your best manner, and 
thank Heaven that you are in for a bit of honest 
good luck.” 

Medhurst was sensible enough to take this advice, 
although he liked neither the tone nor the matter of 
it. It would have pleased him to be independent of 
the common lot. If he could not act a striking part 
on the stage of the world he would have preferred 
to sit in the boxes, a critical or indifferent specta- 
tor. However, egoistic claims of an extravagant kind 
are not so unusual that the general S3’stem of the 
universe is overturned to make way for them, and 
so far in his career Medhurst had been compelled to 
obey puppet-strings of another man’s pulling. He 
would have liked to humor his own vanity by pre- 
tending to hesitate over Mr. Haxtoun’s offer ; but then 
declared to himself that he was a fool, and accepted 
it at once. Like everything else that had happened 
to him for years, it was altogether remote from his 
actual scheme of life ; but every man has a destiny 
allotted to him, and Medhurst had almost come to 
believe that his was to do nothing he had ever 
counted on. 

The title of the great work on which his assistance 
was required turned out to be “ The Identity of the 
Primitive Epic of all Aryan Nations.” Such a 
subject covers a vast expanse of country, and so 
much of it was unexplored, and even unmapped for 
Medhurst, that he felt doubtful whether he could 
pass muster in Mr. Haxtoun’s examination ; but 
this he apparentlj* contrived to do. The fact was, 
two_ other aspirants for the position had applied, 
each of whom had given the author pangs of morti- 


8 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


fi cation and dread, and from whom he had escaped 
with thankfulness that he was in no way committed 
to their mercies. He had then applied to Mr. Hill, 
telling him that he wanted a well-educated young 
man, without prepossessions or violent conceit. 
He felt that it behooved him to be cautious, very 
cautious, and take Medhurst’s measure thoroughly ; 
but the fact was, that, moved by a fancy for him, 
he was not at the pains of considering anything 
beyond his personal advantages. What he saw 
was a well-made, sufficiently good-looking young 
man of twenty-eight, brown-haired, gray-eyed, 
with a crisp, dark mustache of the narrowest 
possible arch, giving a lighter character to the 
solidly moulded mouth and chin. His manner was 
attractive though unusually serious. He spoke 
without hesitation, but betrayed no inclination for 
an unnecessary word. Mr. Haxtoun thought him a 
peculiarly agreeable person to get along with. He 
liked gravity ; he liked silence ; he liked a man who 
knew how to listen. He was impressed, besides, by 
the half-brusque way with which Medhurst dismissed 
all questions of his individual likings and dislikings, 
apparently counting them as unimportant. 

Medhurst, on the other hand, recognized in his 
patron a methodical and painstaking old gentleman 
of sixty-five, who invested the most trivial circum- 
stance connected with himself with extreme porten- 
tousness. Ilis taste was likely to have many nice 
distinctions ; his instinct would be jealous ; likely 
enough his habit would be rather inclined to petty 
tyrannies. 15ut, after reading out about two score 
of questions committed to paper, and obtaii 


MR. HAXTOUN'S GREAT WORK. 


9 


decently satisfactory answers, Mr. Haxtoun re- 
laxed a little. His delicate, thin face lost its anxious 
expression, took color, and expanded into some- 
thing like geniality. The exigencies of his position 
had forced him to be inquisitive, and rather disa- 
greeable, and he was glad to become apologetic, 
even flattering. 

“ You see, Mr. Medhurst,” he now observed, u it 
was a veiy important matter, — the making of this 
engagement. It was not alone a question of your 
acquirements, but of your sympathy with me, — 
your probable insight into the workings of my mind. 
We shall be thrown into intimate companionship, 
and I cannot live with people I dislike, or who take 
a contradictor}’ and critical attitude regarding me. 
You might possess every intellectual qualification, and 
yet hinder my work and paralyze my powers. I am 
a man of ardent imagination, yet at the same time 
I am sensitive, very sensitive. A breath of cen- 
sure kills me. You are the third applicant for the 
position of my secretary. What I went through 
with the first is absolutely painful to consider. His 
name was Faber ; he was a German, — a professor, 
I believe. He had gone over m} r whole field ; but his 
views made me shudder. He sees in the 4 Iliad,* 
even the ‘ Odysse}’,’ a mere pell-mell of fugitive 
ballads, flung together without coherence or cohesion. 
He insisted on piling up instances of the contradic- 
tions which he declares bristle along the pages from 
the eleventh to the eighteenth book of the 1 Iliad.’ 
I politely, but firmly, refused to listen. I rose. Tie 
went on reciting, almost foaming at the mouth. I 
went out and up to my room, and two flights above. 


10 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


I still heard him shrieking out, 4 The Hesiodic epic 
distinctly proves .* I sent one of the waiters to show 
him the door, and tell him I should not require his 
services, and presently I watched him go up the 
street, still wildly gesticulating.” 

44 1 have heard of Faber. He is a monomaniac,” 
said Medhurst; “but he is a man of profound re- 
search, I am told.” 

4 4 , 1 prefer making my own researches. The second 
aspirant was an old man, older than myself, a mere 
verbalist, with eyes bleared from looking into dic- 
tionaries. But what I wanted, -and what I flatter 
myself 1 have secured, is a clever young fellow, 
whos.e ideas are not set in grooves, and whose im- 
agination is not quenched.” 

Medhurst made some appreciative rejoinder, but 
would better have liked a compliment to his cool 
head and steady heart. Mr. Haxtoun, much relieved 
at having tided over his present difficulty, overflowed 
with garrulousness. 

44 My first idea,” he pursued, 44 was to work inde- 
pendently from first to last. The matter of my 
book had lain in my mind for many a year. Pub- 
lication did not at first seem a necessit}" of life to 
me, scarcely a laudable ambition, since I wanted no 
noisy eclat , no distinction from authorship. Gradu- 
ally, however, I began to feel it was becoming my 
duty. The nature of my studies had roused expec- 
tations, — extravagant, no doubt, but still founded on 
the knowledge my friends have gained of my powers. 
I am constantly asked,” — here Mr. Haxtoun stopped 
a moment to utter a dry little laugh, — 44 how my great 
work is coming on. I hate to disappoint the world, 


MR. HAXTOUN'S GREAT WORK. 


11 


but the magnitude of my undertaking begins to loom 
before me alarmingly. I am in my sixty-seventh 
year ; naturally I want to see it in print before I die. 
Mrs. Haxtoun has found my work a serious inter- 
ference with some of her views : it keeps me away 
from her all day long ; she declares it makes me 
dyspeptic sitting and brooding over my thoughts. 
Once, just to oblige her, I gave it up for three days ; 
but, I assure you, Mr. Medhurst, deprived of my oc- 
cupation I was worse off than Othello. In fact, with 
his jealous disposition, he was rich in resources com- 
pared with me.” The old gentleman here paused to 
utter a faint “ Ha ! ha ! ” over his own wit. 44 My wife 
had to acquiesce,” he continued . 4 ‘ She was compelled 
to let me go back. I then asked her to assist me, so 
that she need not be cut off from my society. But 
she wore upon my nerves. With the best intentions 
iu the world she somehow damped my enthusiasm. 
She w r ould find an illustration trivial which to me 
was luminous with meaning. She would pull me up 
while I was dictating by asking gently if what I was 
writing was not vague. 

44 This experience was dispiriting. It forced me to 
realize how solitary the great thinkers of the world 
necessarily are. My daughter has copied a great 
many manuscripts for me, and done some very pretty 
translation^ ; but this does not suit my wife’s idea 
for Cecil, who is at the age when amusements are im- 
portant. We have a neighbor, who is rather an orig- 
inal man iii his way, and he said to me, the other 
’ ,y, 4 Get a secretary, Mr. Haxtoun ; otherwise yon 

11 waste the rest of your life without finally aecom- 

shing your object^ I decided to take Mr. Rod- 


12 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


ney Heriot’s suggestion, and I am prepared to say it 
was an excellent one.” 

Medhurst was not so prompt in committing himself 
to the most favorable view of his chances. The old 
gentleman might turn out a terrible bore, with his 
artless loquacity, in which every experience, thought, 
and sensation was diluted endlessly. He had, how- 
ever, made a definite engagement, and was to set 
out the following afternoon with Mr. Haxtoun. 
Whatever weariness the position entailed, or labors 
it necessitated, it was certainly more lucrative 
than his present one, which barely kept him free 
of debt. One little circumstance both pleased and 
irritated Medhurst. Mr. Haxtoun urged, and even 
tried delicately to insist, that his new secretary 
should accept the first-quarter’s payment in advance. 
Medhurst resented this with a haughty stare. The 
suggestion annoyed him, and when his thoughts 
recurred to it, afterwards, a wave of anger and 
shame passed over him, at the fancy that something 
of poverty in his appearance had led Mr. Haxtoun 
to make the proposal. The compensation was, 
that he was able to reflect that he stood, as he 
had always stood, fair and square with the world, 
and that, though sometimes closely pushed, he had 
never fallen behindhand, but had, indeed, kept 
something to the fore. There had been times when 
he had been in danger of debt, — when in early years 
he had been less free than at present from the pleas- 
ing superstition that he was ultimately to possess all 
he wanted ; when, in order not to cut a bad figure, 
he had extravagantly drawn upon his few resources. 
Of late he had been more prudent. He had, indeed, 


MR. HAXTOUN'S GREAT WORK. 13 

saved some money for a certain purpose. He owed 
nobody anything, except two columns to the edi- 
tor of the “Forum.” He wrote them up before 
midnight, and next morning corrected the final 
revise of a novel, which he was just about to pub- 
lish. Then he packed his smallest trunk, and pre- 
pared to leave New York. He decided not to burn 
his boats behind him, and left many of his posses- 
sions in his landlady’s care. 

“ I may want to come back in three months,” he 
said to her. i 


14 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER II. 

A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 

T HE journey by rail lasted almost three 
hours, and Medhurst felt considerably better 
acquainted with his patron when he left the car 
than he had been when he entered it. Mr. Haxtouu 
had perhaps thought it well to break ground at 
once, and make the young man thoroughly ac- 
quainted with the unknown country he was about to 
enter. He began with generous autobiographical 
details : his falling in love with the present Mrs. 
Haxtoun, and their early married life. He gave a 
lively narrative of the first inception of his great 
idea of the Identity of the Aryan Epic, and his sub- 
sequent grappling with it ; or rather, perhaps, the 
history of its usurpation of # his mind and life. Mr. 
Haxtoun was, besides, a dyspeptic; and as dyspep- 
sia was likely to be, as it had alwa} r s been, a con- 
siderable factor in his moods, besides governing 
his capacities, it was probably as well to initiate 
the secretary into its symptoms, and the courses 
of treatment prescribed and carried out. The old 
gentleman had tried everything, — the fasting cure, 
the dieting cure, the milk cure, — but had now reached 
the vantage-land of scepticism towards all, with 
a giadualty developing belief that the richest and 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


15 


most highly seasoned food suited him best, and was, 
at any rate, the safest insurance tor enjoyment of* 
life. As a test of patience these confidences — 
which were curiously intermingled with accounts of 
' h J s fami ly circle, his wife, son, and daughter, and 
niece ; one statement overlapping another and leading 
to perpetual repetitions — may have had their uses : 
they convinced the speaker that his victim could bear 
much without undue depression or excited rejoinder. 
Medhurst played the part of listener most engag- 
mgly> giving various, if vague, indications of interest 
while these coiled- up reminiscences were slowly 
unwound, neither shrinking from the recital nor 
seeming eager for its continuance. His adhe- 
sion to the idea of this sudden convulsion in his 
life was still so fresh that, except by momentary 
glimpses, he hardly yet realized where he stood. It 
crossed his mind, occasional^, that unless he con- 
tracted the warmest friendship for his patron he 
might, on closer acquaintance, find him insupporta- 
ble ; but at present he almost enjoyed these inter- 
minable harangues. For years, now, he had been 
incessantly goaded by the idea that the least of his 
experiences must be turned to account, must be 
served up, with more or less exaggeration, for readers 
of the “ Daily Forum ” ; so now, having nothing to do 
save to listen, he yielded to a sense of passive content. 

They left the cars a few miles from Philadelphia, 
and were met by an open wagon, which took them and 
their baggage to their place of destination. The drive 
lasted almost an hour ; but on this pleasant after- 
noon, towards the end of May, it was a never-ending 
delight to Medhurst, whom the successive vistas into 


16 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


park-like grounds on either hand, the sight of the 
tops of the trees against the sky, the verj' buttercups 
along the roadside, moved almost beyond his will, 
lie liked his first glimpse of Roseudale, as Mr. 
Haxtoun’s famity-place was called ; it looked substan- 
tial and venerable. Fine oaks and chestnuts were 
massed together here and there, or towered singly 
from an open glade. The house stood moderately 
high, with a sloping lawn in front, and terraces on 
the sides and at the rear. The building was of 
gray, unhewn stone, diversified with gables, turrets, 
and dormer windows. The north side was entirely 
covered w r ith a luxuriant mantle of ivy, in the midst 
of which was a mediaeval-looking latticed window, 
thrown wide open. At the sound of approaching 
wheels a tall girl, dressed in white, suddenly ap- 
peared at the casement, and leaned out with eager 
curiosity. She was smiling, and seemed about to 
utter a glad cry ; but, meeting only Medhurst’s glance, 
.she merely gave a slight inclination of the head, and 
instantly vanished, leaving an impression on his 
mind of some scene in the Arabian Nights’ Enter- 
tainments. When the wagon reached the steps she 
was standing in the door-way, beside a lady in a 
lilac dress, with a lace scarf on her head. They 
both came forward, and the girl ran to her father 
while he was still on the step, put her arms about 
his neck and kissed him, first on one cheek and 
then on the other. 

“ Gently, gently, my dear,” said he. “ Remem- 
ber, I am only made of flesh and blood. This is 
my daughter Cecil, Mr. Medhurst,” he added. 

Cecil barely looked at the young man, but with a 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


17 


little nod put her arm inside her father’s, and led him 
up to Mrs. Ilaxtoun. Medhurst was not, however, 
left out in the cold. In fact, neither wife nor child 
seemed, at present, to the old gentleman, so distinct 
a boon from Heaven as this stiff young secretary he 
had brought home. He introduced him to his wife 
with a glow of positive enthusiasm ; called up his 
son Alec, and presented him, adding that he wanted 
every possible attention offered to this new acquisi- 
tion. Alec was nothing loth ; he began talking at 
once, in no way rebuffed by the cool way in which 
Medhurst met his advances, and finally proposed to 
show him his room, leading the way upstairs, hos- 
pitably throwing open the shutters and putting back 
the curtains. 

‘‘ I dare say you will come down when you feel 
like it,” Alec then remarked. “We take tea at eight, 
3’ou know.” 

“I will be down in five minutes,” Medhurst 
said, answering for the first time by more than a 
single word. 

“ There is your trunk coming up. Well, all 
right.” Alec seemed, however, reluctant to go, and 
now burst into a laugh. 

“ You see,” he explained, “ I feel quite upset by 
the sight of you. I expected a rusty, musty old 
fellow.” 

“That precisely describes me.” 

“We were talking to Heriot about what you were 
likely to be. After the picture he drew it seems 
delightful to realize that you are a being of flesh 
and blood.” 

Medhurst gave a shrug. It was difficult for him 


18 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


to see the humorous side of the subject. He had 
evidently been well laughed at before he came, and 
that might be only the beginning of his making 
amusement for a group of young people. 

“ We shall find you a great addition,” said Alec, 
returning to his good manners. “We are dull and 
monotonous, but we will do our best for you.” 

He went out, and, left alone at last, Medhurst 
glanced about his room, which was to his percep- 
tions so dainty, so refined, so feminine-looking, that 
he felt certain he should never be able to use its 
appurtenances freely. Chintz, ribbons, and lace 
overhung the toilet ; curtained windows, doors, and 
recesses screened the bath, and made a canopy for 
the bed. Every variety of easy-chair stretched out 
its arms to draw him to its cushioned depths. The 
least want had been provided for ; in fact, the super- 
fluity of equipment suggested wants and needs for 
which he cared nothing, and of which he had hith- 
erto known nothing, but now his very ignorance and 
indifference made him in his own eyes crude and 
uncivilized. 

“ A pretty time I shall have of it here, stumbling 
into pitfalls at every step ! ” he said to himself. He 
went to the window and looked out at the river and 
hills beyond. So far he had only seen the waters 
of the Delaware by glimpses, and the scene towards 
sunset struck him as indescribably pretty and pictu- 
resque. It inspired, however, a feeling of absolute 
melancholy, — the sort of melancholy he might have 
experienced if what he loved best in the world were 
shut away from him by these horizons. He re- 
pented coming, and wished himself away. “A 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


19 


pretty time I shall have in this house, ”he said, 
again staring at the reflection of the sunset clouds 
in the river. He felt indignant towards Mr. Hill 
and towards all the Haxtouns for forcing him into 
these changed currents of existence. “ I was well 
enough off in New York,” he now said aloud, as if 
ready to argue the matter with some unseen an- 
tagonistic force. Nevertheless, while he uttered 
this, the thought suddenly occurred to him that it 
had been a joyless life enough he had led in New 
York. He remembered how the young girl’s head 
had looked framed in the ivy-hung casement. 

It crossed his mind presently that time was pass- 
ing, and that he might be expected downstairs. 
He was angry with himself for a sort of trembling ; 
not so much a trembling as an after-quivering of 
the nerves left by over-excitement. But what could 
have excited him? He declared to himself that, 
after bolting his meals for four years in cheap eat- 
ing-houses, he dreaded the ordeal of a private table. 
He was in doubt as to the propriety of making a 
change in his dress, and, remembering the elegant 
nicety of Alec Haxtoun, he longed to be rough and 
careless. Nevertheless, he set about his toilet with 
the most fastidious pains, although his thoughts 
chafed restlessly all the time, impugning his motives 
and condemning his weakness. 

Meantime the group on the veranda had not 
moved. 

“ He is what I call a gentleman,” Mr. Haxtoun 
had been saying. “He has pleased me better and 
better each hour since we met. He lost his parents 
early, and whatever small patrimony he had was 


20 A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 

spent on his education. He had expected to study 
law, but was compelled to do something for himself 
as soon as he left the University.” 

“And this was promotion to him !” exclaimed Mrs. 
Haxtoun. “ He could have had little enough success 
elsewhere. I suppose you will hardly give him more 
than a few hundred dollars a year.” 

“ The terms are not precisely fixed,” said Mr. 
Haxtoun, a little hurt at the tone his wife was taking. 
She seemed, he thought, to exhibit an excessive and 
obtrusive surprise at the appearance of the young 
man, — a surprise disproportionate to the occasion. 
She had declared that he looked young ; that he did 
not impress her as she had expected to be impressed 
by a mere secretary. She had added, too, that he 
was very well dressed. If there could have been any 
reason for it he might have fancied there was some- 
thing displeasing to her in youth, good looks, and 
respectable clothes. 

“Really, Leonard,” she now said, almost with 
vehemence, “I should suppose that any young 
man of good education, and even moderate energy, 
could get a better place than this.” 

“I mean that he shall find it a very good place, 
my dear.” 

“ But, Leonard, if you thought of doing anything 
extravagant, ought you not to reflect ” — 

Mr. Haxtoun rose. “ I will go in,” said he. “ I 
will go to my own room, and have a little fire made 
in the grate. I feel myself taking cold here in the 
dampness.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun sprang towards her husband at 
once. She was conscious of having betrayed some 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


21 


irritation, instead of giving him a warm, wifely greet- 
ing. But then it seemed to her a very singular 
indiscretion for Mr. Haxtoun to have brought home 
a j’oung and very good-looking man to make a new 
member in their household. She had rather inclined 
to the idea of a secretary, for her husband had con- 
stantly interfered with Cecil’s amusements and occu- 
pations, by asking one little service of her after an- 
other ; but the secretary she had seen in her mind’s 
eye had in no way resembled Medhurst. He had 
been of no particular age, near-sighted, bent, narrow- 
chested, shy and awkward in his manners. She had 
not begrudged him one of her pretty spare chambers ; 
but she had considered it too good for him neverthe- 
less. She would have been very kind to a weak- 
looking, bashful man, even if he had been young ; but 
towards Medhurst she felt a singular hostility. He 
ought never to have been brought to Rosendale 
without her advice being asked. But then, Mr. ITax- 
toun never did ask her advice. He never coarsely 
rejected it ; but he never seemed conscious that she 
had independent views to offer. He seemed to take 
it for granted that, because she was his dutiful wife, 
she agreed with him on every subject, and that the 
most strenuous elucidation of his private opinions 
was a mere amplification of his own, and any dif- 
ference was feminine error. 

But the idea that he had taken cold now roused 
her liveliest solicitude, and other complications were 
lost sight of in view of this present evil. 

“ O my dear ! ” she exclaimed, “ where do you 
feel it? How could I have been so thoughtless! 
Is it all .over you, or in your head?” 


22 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“My throat, I think,” said Mr. Ilaxtoun, with 
feeble resignation. 44 I ought not to have sat down 
with you young people. You are always forgetting 
that I am an old man.” 

“You must take' a hot drink when you go’ to 
bed.” 

44 It will be too late to undo the mischief then,” 
said Mr. Haxtoun, shaking his head mournfully. 

44 You shall have one now.” 

44 That would simply prevent my having any ap- 
petite for mj 7 supper.” 

By this time husband and wife were half way up 
the stairs, and on the landing encountered Med- 
hurst. 

4 ‘ Ah, Mr. Medhurst,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, in a 
tone of the most exquisite politeness, 44 you must 
make yourself quite at home! We must leave 
you to the young people for the present. Alec 
will show you about. We have kept Mr. llax- 
toun so long on the piazza that he has caught a 
chill.” 

44 1 trust nothing of consequence,” said Medhurst. 

44 1 will take a quinine pilt,” answered Mr. Iiax- 
toun, in a tone of doom, and, waving his hand as if 
in blessing, he vanished. 

Medhurst went slowly down the stairs, lingering 
as long as possible on each one, finally standing still 
at the lowest, and awaiting developments. 

44 Oh, I say, Cis,” cried Alec, 4 ‘ here is Mr. 
Medhurst ! I am glad you have come down. Tea is 
not ready yet ; in fact I hear that it is put off . 
Nothing is so movable as the feasts in this house 
when you are hungry, and nothing so relentless and 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


23 


immovable when you want them a little late. They 
are always either too early or too late.” 

Both the young people had come up to Medhurst 
in the hall, and on the threshold of the door now 
appeared a very blond and graceful young girl, in 
a dark-green dress, attended by a saturnine-looking 
young man. 

u This is my cousin, Miss Winchester, Mr. Med- 
hurst,” said Cecil. “And let me introduce Mr. 
Arthur Snow, also.” 

Miss Winchester shot a very bright glance at the 
new secretary, but Mr. Snow regarded him with ap- 
parent hostility; but then, Mr. Snow perhaps had a 
sort of grudge against the world in general, for the 
sio-ht of most things under the sun increased his 
look of ennui and melancholy. The two, having 
gratified their curiosity, remarked that they were 
going to walk again, bowed, and withdrew. 

“ My cousin has incessant occupation at pres- 
ent,” remarked Alec, “ having the care of a” — 

Cecil flung her brother a look expressive of 
horror. 

“ They are engaged,*” she put in. “ They are to 
be married in the autumn.” 

“Do you suppose Mr. Medhurst cares anything 
about that, Cis?” asked Alec, in a pitying tone. 
“ Girls,” he went on, “ like to hear about weddings, 
and to talk about them, because it reminds them of 
the happy time when they shall be brides ; while a 
man hates all mention of them, for fear that, sooner 
or later, his time may come.” 

“Iam entirely unmoved either by expectation or 
dread,” said Medhurst. 


24 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Did the place strike }’ou pleasantly as you drove 
in?” Alec asked presently, breaking a stiff pause. 

“ Yes ; I never saw in this country such fine ivy.” 

“ The climate favors it. It is milder here than in 
New York.” 

Medhurst declined to discuss climates. He stood 
looking from one to the other of the young people 
with an attentive gaze. The stillness again began 
to be appalling, and discomfited Cecil, who now re- 
marked shyly, “ Our place is quite old ; ” then added, 
“Alec, tell Mr. Medhurst about our place, — how 
old it is, and all that.” 

Her face as she spoke grew excessively arch, al- 
though she was apparently speaking with absolute 
seriousness. 

Alec caught the tone at once. 

“ The Ilaxtouns have lived here for one hundred 
and sixty years,” said he. 

“Indeed?” 

“ The old house bears the date of 1717,” put in 
Cecil, with the candid air of a child. 

“ This house? ” 

“No, this house was built in 1832 by my grand- 
father. The old house is on the lowest terrace, 
close to the river. The ceilings are so low I can 
touch them with my hand by standing on my tiptoes. 
The windows are very small and the glass very old 
and green, but we value it because on one of the 
panes is written, with a diamond, 4 Peace, hush this 
dismal din of arms. Jan. 19, 1777.’ ” 

“ Indeed?” Medhurst said again. 

© 

“ It was supposed to be written by my great- 
great-aunt, who had a lover in the war,” she 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


25 


added. “Don’t you think it rather interest- 
ing?” 

u Very,” Medhurst remarked, his tongue too stiff 
to yield a word more. He saw clearly that, although 
his entertainers showed kindness and consideration, 
they found something distinctly humorous in the 
situation, a something that had no precedent in their 
traditions. Cecil fastened her lovely, frightened 
eyes upon him, much as if he had been a unique 
animal, and she in doubt how to coax his humors. 
All he cared for at present was to hold his own. 
lie was perfectly self-possessed, and studied both the 
young Haxtouns as critically as the occasion permitted. 
Cecil’s beauty was undeniable. Being onty nineteen, 
she had, besides beauty, the indescribable freshness 
and charm of early youth. Beyond this there was an 
unusual degree of high finish in the moulding of 
both form and features, which promised still greater 
perfection when a few 3’ears of womanhood should 
have developed her. All this he could see ; but 
whether her eyes were blue or brown ; whether with 
that dark hair and dazzlingly fair skin she was to 
be classed with brunettes or with the medium type, 
he could not at present decide. Whatever might 
be the color of her eyes their expression varied be- 
wilderingly from the caressing to the mocking, the 
timid to the imperious. At the beginning of her 
speech they pleaded , they enticed ; at its close they 
laughed. Her mouth, too, was lovely as a child’s, 
and whenever she opened her lips her smile had 
an actual cherubic charm ; but the innocence and 
candor grew into the sweetest mischief and way- 
wardness, and one’s heart, at first warmed by her air 


26 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


of goodness, burned presently with a sense of being 
duped and tantalized. She was tall, and appeared 
taller than her actual height, from the straightness 
and slimness of her pretty figure. The gown she! 
wore was of thick, fluffy white, with full frills of 
yellow lace at the throat and elbows, which gave 
the effect of her blossoming out Of it like a flower 
out of a deep corolla. 

As for Alec he was twenty-three or four, with an 
air of holding serious views concerning his toilet 
and behavior. He aimed at being correct, and 
rather colorless ; but his spirit was too high to allow 
of his making a definite impression of mere ele- 
gance. There was, indeed, rather a spoiled-child air 
about both young people, which might easily be for- 
given on account of their perfect good-nature and 
love of innocent fun. Medhurst made up his mind 
he could easily enough like Alec ; but, as for the 
pretty, princess-like creature, he invested her at once 
with aristocratic hauteur , whims, and caprices, which 
separated her from him like a being of a different 
world. 

“Alec!” Cecil exclaimed, in atone of indigna- 
tion, “ papa told you to offer Mr. Medhurst every 
attention. I insist that you shall show him the 
house at once.” 

“ Don’t, I beg, take any trouble to entertain me,” 
said Medhurst, dryty. 

“ Oh, we are charmed to do it ! ” cried Alec. ' 

“Papa told us he wanted you to feel quite at 
home,” said Cecil, “ and that we must do all in our 
power to make it agreeable to you. We are stupid, 
but our intentions are good.” She accompanied 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


27 


these words with the upturned glance of an affec- 
tionate child ; but Medhurst bit his lip. 

“This is the parlor,” said Alec, advancing along 
the hall, and indicating the salon at the left. 

“The drawing-room,” corrected Cecil. “You 
don’t make anything impressive, Alec. I will do 
the honors myself.” She ran on ajiead, and stood 
at the wide-arclied door with a charming gesture of 
invitation. “This is the Haxtoun drawing-room,” 
said she. “ It runs the length of the house, and has 
eight French windows and two doors. It is fur- 
nished in frayed yellow satin, and carpeted with an 
afflicting pattern in Axminster, which, after forty 
years of constant use, will not wear out. The 
works of art on the wall are by — Who are the 
works of art on the wall by, Alec?” she asked, look- 
ing at her brother and going off into a fit of girlish 
laughter. “ Are you aesthetic, Mr. Medhurst? ” she 
asked, suddenly growing grave and drawing herself 
up. 

“ Not in the ieast,” Medhurst replied, softening a 
little at the sight of her wistful face. If she had 
been more of a child or more of a woman he might, 
he thought, have known better how r to take this 
prodigality of spirits and this high coloring of fun 
and folly. 

e are not aesthetic,” she now remarked. 
“We have neighbors whose houses look as if they 
were furnished out of the South Kensington Art 
Museum. Accordingly we pose as Philistines ; we 
make no concessions to new ideas, — not we ! What 
we like in a thing is its durability, its respectabil- 
ity, its ugliness. We don’t have furniture and cups 


28 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


and saucers to look at ! What we pique ourselves 
upon is the utter absence of taste in our house. It 
costs a great deal to keep up to our standard of 
hideousness, for almost everything nowadays is so 
, pretty and so cheap. In this way we stand up 
against the encroachments of our rich neighbors. 
You should see Mrs. Est6’s pictures” — 

44 China,” said Alec. 

44 Crystal, and glass, and damask” — 

44 Carvings and furniture” — 

44 Engs, Japanese bronzes ” — 

44 And her clothes ! ” 

44 She sits among her splendors with the smile of 
a Cornelia,” pursued Cecil ; 44 for her chief treasure 
is her son.” 

44 Oh, such a son ! ” said Alec. 44 He is as dutiful 
as — one of Lear’s daughters ! ” 

44 1 wonder if you will like Mr. Heriot,” said 
Cecil, turning to Medhurst. 44 He is rather — distin- 
guished, — does that suit Mr. Heriot, Alec?” 

44 1 never heard an adjective yet that expressed 
him.” 

Medhurst was looking at Cecil and smiling, and 
she ceased to think of what she was saying, or to 
listen to her brother. She turned awa}^ from his 
gaze with a wish to say something to hide a sort of 
feeling she could not express ; but could think of no 
words, except mere commonplaces about the parlor, 
where they still stood. 

44 It is a very pleasant room in summer,” she went 
on, with quite a shy air. 44 In winter we live 
altogether on the south side of the house. This is 
mamma’s morning- room, and that is ihe library. 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


29 


Alec, take Mr. Medhurst into papa’s book-room. 
You will be apt to spend a good deal of your time 
there,” she added, crossing before Medhurst, in 
order to allow him a chance to go on, and sending a 
little smile up into his e3^es as she passed him. 

Alec took the lead, though the library was so 
dark that they could only see their way into a small 
oblong room, completely lined with books, except 
for the three windows which opened to the south 
and west. 

“ This apartment is sacred to the work,” said 
Alec, in a voice expressive of intense veneration. 
“ Every book in those five tiers relates to the Aryan 
epics. As you see, we mention the subject with 
genuflections and with bated breath.” 

Medhurst began to understand Mr. Haxtoun’s 
need of a paid secretary. 

“In those cabinets,” pursued Alec, “are pots, 
pans, and jars, which will, we suppose, illustrate 

THE WOKK.” 

“ Aren’t they hideous?” said Cecil, peering into 
the shelves over her brother’s shoulder. 

Medhurst was unaware that the young girl had 
followed them into the book-room, and now, startled 
by her sudden exclamation, turned sharply and met 
her face close to his. Thus seen, blushing and 
dimpling, she made so vivid a picture that he hardly 
knew what he said or did for the few succeeding 
moments. Having introduced him to the scene of 
his future labors both the young people became 
frankly familiar. Cecil prompted Alec to tell all 
sorts of fantastic freaks to which they had forced 
their father’s great undertaking to lend itself. They 


30 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


both bubbled over with glee, humoring each other 
by every variety of childish reminiscences. It was 
unnecessary for Medhurst to take any part in the 
game save that of indulgent listener. He had 
begun by being somewhat anno3'ed, but he ended 
by being amused. There were both sweetness 
and seductiveness in Cecil : her face took a fresh 
meaning every moment ; she might be arch, she 
might be satirical, but she was bewitching. She 
alternately turned to him with the clear pose of a 
woman of the world and with an artless smile. 
Beginning by a sort of autobiographical sketch, 
which linked itself with the various processes of 
her father’s great idea, the help she had given him 
through numerous difficulties, she finally entered 
upon the subject of his present advantages in hav- 
ing secured such a secretary. She actually had the 
audacity to rally Medhurst himself. 

“ I know very well that you are a universal 
genius,” she remarked, with mischievous ease. 
“Papa said he examined }*ou on every subject, and 
touched bottom nowhere.” 

Medhurst glanced at Miss Haxtoun, then looked 
awa} T . 

“ You arc, I believe, a regular cosmopolitan, a 
citizen of the world,” she went on. “ You have 
lived everywhere. ’ ’ 

“ Exactly.” 

u I thought so. It is so delightful to think you 
have done everything. We are narrow and pro- 
vincial, — regular Philistines, as I was just saypg. 
But you are like Mr. Rodney Ileriot, — at home any- 
where between the poles and the equator ; can dine 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA . 


31 


on rice or whale-blubber ; wear sandals or snow- 
shoes. But, dear me, how tame and uninteresting 
you will think us ! ” 

Medhurst hardly knew whether to be enraged or 
to break out laughing. Accordingly he smiled 
grimly and held his tongue. 

44 We are terribly dull,” she pursued vaguely. 
44 We live so near town that it never seems worth 
while to go to town. It is always too wet or too 
dry. too hot or too cold, or some of our relations are 
sick or dead. We stay here all the year round, see 
nothing, hear nothing, do nothing, - — except Alec, 
of course. He belongs to the actual world. He 
mixes in the excitements of real life. He goes into 
town every morning at nine, and does not return 
until three o’clock. He is an eminent lawyer.” 

44 I’m too eminent,” Alec struck in. 44 One of 
the Ilaxtouns of Rosendale, people say, and no- 
body thinks of giving me a brief. Nobody has a 
chance to find out my consummate cleverness, and 
it is taken for granted that my legal studies are an 
elegant fiction, an apology for indolence. What I 
pine for is to roll up my sleeves and go to work and 
make some money ; but I can only ” — 

44 Roll cigarettes,” suggested Cecil. 

Both laughed as at some unique Avitticism. They 
had left the book-room, and were standing on the 
back piazza, and here, on the river-side, were charm- 
ing vistas opening to the banks of the Delaware. 
They walked down the path to the shore. Sunset was 
ov i-r hnt o, f ew blushing, translucent clouds still 
the gold and amber of the west, and, re- 
ie river, showed the track of a passing 


32 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


boat, a trembling, fluctuating wake of rose and 
flame. The old house stood but little above the 
water’s edge ; it was covered with luxuriant creepers, 
but looked dark and deserted. Between the cottage 
and the river were two gravelled terraces, one above 
the other, each bordered with rows of white lilacs 
now in full bloom. Medhurst hardly knew himself. 
The dreamy hour, the charming views on either 
hand, the lilac scents, the illusion of easy, sympa- 
thetic companionship, made him dread his own 
pleasurable sensations. The walk w r as wide enough 
for three, and he paced along by Miss Haxtoun’s 
side, listening to her, and occasionally putting in a 
word. 

“ Rodney Heriot is coming to tea,” Alec said 
suddenly. 

“ You ought to go in, then ! ” 

“ Heriot is likely to surprise you,” Alec remarked, 
turning to Medhurst. 

“ Is he a young man?” 

“ No ; not to say young. He is probably thirty- 
five.” 

“ He seems to me older than that,” said Cecil. 
“ He has done so many things. J He is like a person 
who gets up earl}'’ in the morning and accomplishes 
everything, then has a long stupid afternoon left on 
his hands.” b 

“ What Heriot has not done,” said Alec, with a 
suggestive look at Medhurst, “ is not worth doing.” 

“ Yet you call your neighborhood tame and unin- 
teresting ? ” 

“ His mother lives here, and he is visiting her. 
She was married twice, and he was the son of lieu 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


33 


first husband. She lost her second a year or more 
ago. Heriot arrived in March, and had no intention 
of staying ; but he has not gone away, nor do I think 
he is likely to go.” 

Medhurst had finally gained one distinct impres- 
sion. It was that Heriot was in love with Miss 
Haxtoun. Everything else was vague, but this was 
clear. 

For some reason, more or less occult, Medhurst 
felt at once in more harmonious relations with his 
surroundings. He was anxious to see Heriot, and 
observe his manner to this lovely, imperious, and 
rather bewildering Miss Haxtoun. He said to him- 
self that he would make the utmost of his present 
experiment, as an opportunity for social observation. 
He had already written a novel, and had at times been 
impelled to pause, and wish that he had more ample 
knowledge of what was going on in the gay world 
whose follies he was so ready to deride. He could 
now become a looker-on, without r61e or phrases of 
his own, and could study the habits and characteris- 
tics of the choicest specimens of youth and beauty. 

At this moment Rodney Heriot approached the 
party of young people. He went straight up to 
Cecil, to whom he bowed, without offering his hand ; 
and she, for the first time since Medhurst had seen 
her, wore an air of constraint, drew herself to her 
full height, and seemed in a freezing mood. 

“ How are you, Heriot? ” said Alec. “ Let me in- 
troduce you and Mr. Medhurst to each other.” 

u Is it the new secretary? ” asked Rodney Heriot. 

“ I am the new secretary,” Medhurst returned. 

The two looked at each other with some curiosity. 


34 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


They were the same height, but Roduej 7 Heriot 
looked the taller, as he was excessively slight, and 
his tigure was rather ill-proportioned. He was, 
nevertheless, a striking-looking man, with a com- 
manding air and a peculiarly expressive face. He 
had large blue eyes, a thin, sensitively outlined 
mouth, and his skin was delicate as a girl’s. His face 
beardless, without even a mustache, and his pale 
brown hair was scanty. He gave the impression of a 
versatile and doubtful personality. His eyes puzzled 
and annoyed any one inclined to make him a study. 
They were at times hard, cold, and relentless; 
again, clear and frank : they could soften and 
brighten, and darken too. Rut his whole face sug- 
gested as much whim as intellect, and his habitual 
manner was that of one whose individuality is aggres- 
sive, and allows few encroachments from others. 

“ So you a<re the spirit I called from the vasty 
deep,” he said to Medhurst. “ I told Mr. Haxtoun 
he needed a secretary. Do you feel grateful to 
me?” 

“Notin the least,” returned Medhurst. “Iam 
not an amphibious animal, and feel out of my ele- 
ment entirely.” 

They had shaken hands, but still looked at each 
other as if deepening their mutual impression. 

“Now, look here,” said Rodney Heriot, in a 
light, easy tone ; “ having evoked you I must know 
the secret of you. What is your name and age and 
station ? ” 

“I am twenty-eight years old. My name is 
Francis Medhurst. My station is as you see.” 

They both laughed. 


A LOOKER-ON IN VIENNA. 


35 


“ I must find out more than that,” said Rodney. 
u Do you remember the fate of the wizard’s servant, 
who discovered the secret of incantation and raised a 
demon, but knew not how to dismiss him ? ” 

They both laughed again. 

“ What was that?” inquired Alec, who was a 
little puzzled by the dialogue. 

“ It was a sad story,’ * said Rodney. “ The 
moral is, that a man ought to let well enough alone.” 

It had grown suddenly darker. A summons to 
tea came from Mrs. Haxtoun, and Rodney Ileriot 
offered his arm to Cecil. She declined it, and walked 
on ahead, looking very tall and slight as she mounted 
the terraces flitting towards the lighted house. The 
three men followed, Alec doing most of the talking. 
All the color had withdrawn* out of the sky; not a 
flower showed ; a chilly wind came up from the 
river. * 


36 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER III. 

TABLE-TALK. 

T HERE were eight at the tea-table, which was 
lighted b}' twelve candles, in high silver 
candlesticks. Rodney Heriot took the chair at Mrs. 
Ilaxtoun’s right hand, and Cecil sat on his other 
side. Medhurst’s place was between Mr. Haxtoun 
and Miss Winchester. The old gentleman had 
apparently recovered from his unfavorable symptoms 
of an hour before. He had spent the time giving 
his wife an elaborate detailed account of his doings 
during his six days’ absence. He had, it seemed to 
him, accomplished his purpose in a masterly manner, 
and he wanted her assurance of this ; he had set out 
to prove that he had not only avoided all the dangers 
he had foreseen, but had warded off those unex- 
pected and intrusive difficulties which defy predic- 
tion, turning up at every corner and threatening 
accident and vexation. His wife had ended by 
showing the most 'amiable spirit of obedience and 
acquiescence. However shaken might be her views 
* of her husband’s far-seeing knowledge of the world, 
there was in him a fatal facility for explanation, 
for argument, for careful balancing of expediencies, 
which forced her to succumb. Ever since her 
marriage, Mrs. Haxtoun had intended to have her 


TABLE-TALK. 


37 


own way ; but the occasion when she should do so 
was still a matter requiring prophetic conjecture. 
She disliked the country ; yet she lived in the country 
all the year round. She had wished to go abroad 
after Cecil was through her studies ; but she had not 
gone abroad. Her anxiety was that Cecil should 
make a desirable marriage, and just at this moment, 
when Mr. Rodney Heriot was beginning to show 
unmistakable matrimonial intentions, Mr. Haxtoun 
had introduced a young man into the house, as if 
with the very design of giving Cecil an opportunity 
for capricious conduct, fluctuating feelings, and, 
possibly, romantic flights of fancy. Every woe of her 
life, Mrs. Haxtoun said within her own mind, was 
part of an Aryan epic. Her husband’s great work 
met her at every turn, tormenting, defying, denying ; 
yet it was impossible for her to make him under- 
stand this. It was not in Mrs. Haxtoun’s nature to 
be dictatorial or strenuous. "A woman, she believed, 
should conquer by renunciation and self-sacrifice ; 
she should yield with such grace that chivalrous man 
would be eager not only to reinstate her, but offer 
her ampler powers and wider scope. She would rather 
never have her way than not be kneeled to and 
made the object of a hand-kissing devotion. But, 
nevertheless, Mrs. Haxtoun wanted her own way, 
and never more than now, when Mr. Rodney Heriot 
sat between her and Cecil, and made each the object 
of his little attentions. Mrs. Haxtoun accepted 
them with easy, smiling grace. Cecil seemed un- 
conscious of them. It had before now impressed 
Mrs. Haxtoun that Cecil failed to appreciate the 
fascinations of her suitor. He was self-possessed, 


38 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


observant, and did everything in good taste, and he 
was, besides, a capital talker. He had had plenty of 
experiences, and was willing to use them to give a 
piquant or amusing turn to conversation ; but he 
never lost a certain tone ; he said nothing with too 
much emphasis ; he never insisted on his hearers 
being monopolized by his ideas. In short, to Mrs. 
Haxtoun’s mind he was perfect in every-day inter- 
course ; so different from Mr. Snow, her niece’s 
Jiance , who took himself seriously, and even if he 
had a theory concerning the change of weather was 
apparently^ under the painful pressure of a tre- 
mendous idea. Mrs. Haxtoun liked a man who 
could be free on occasions of himself, — throw self 
and its limitations away. She had perhaps suf- 
fered from the opposite characteristics. 

“It is a singular coincidence,” Mr. Haxtoun 
remarked, the moment the dish-covers were taken 
off, “that when I am especially hungry every- 
thing offered should be of the most unwholesome 
description. Now, of all things to give a worn- 
out traveller, devilled crabs are the worst” — 
“My dear Leonard,” cried Mrs. Haxtoun, “you 
told me you had dined ; and there are cold tongue 
and some delicious cream-toast, and” — 

“But they would never satisfy me, my dear 
Jenny. I crave something highly seasoned, and at 
the same time simple and substantial.” 

“The devilled crabs are just the thing,” said 
Rodney Ileriot, “ with a little of that asparagus 
and mayonnaise.” « Ijfti 

“ I’m afraid you are joking,” remarked Mr. Hax- 
toun, with mild disapproval. “ Young men do not 


TABLE-TALK . 39 

regard these matters as important. Ah, Sarah, 
what is on that platter across the table?” 

“ It is cold salmon,” cried Mrs. Haxtoun, with dis- 
may. “I did. not want you to see this, Leonard; 
you know it always hurts you.” 

“Under some circumstances it might do so? 
but hardly to-night, V said Mr. Haxtoun, who liked 
salmon mayonnaise. “ My dinner, as you call it, 
Jenny, was a mere lunch of cutlets and spinach. 
The cutlets must have been underdone ; they have 
distressed me ever since. I ought never to eat veal 
away from home ; but the fact is, my dear, you 
never have it on the table here.” 

“ You know very well why. You observe,” said 
Mrs. Haxtoun to her next neighbor, “ my husband’s 
diet is governed by fancy, and experience does 
nothing for him.” 

“ I make it a point to regard the food before me 
with a frank and friendly feeling, rather than a cold, 
suspicious one,” said Heriot. 

“ Treachery often lurks under an innocent-look- 
ing dish-cover,” remarked Mr. Haxtoun, mournfully. 
“ It is my profound conviction that the proper 
kind of food for human beings has not yet been 
invented.” 

“The old lady drinks bouilloyi ,” said Rodney 
Heriot, who thus alluded to his mamma. “She 
takes it the first thing in the morning, all through 
the day, and the last thing at night. I’m not sure 
but what her maid wakes her up to give it to her 
every two hours.” 

“ I dare say I shall come to beef-tea and to gruel, 
also, a little later,” said Mr. Haxtoun, rather testily. 


40 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“We all shall,” putin Rodney. “I relish a 
thousand simple, innocent things I never expected 
to. When I first came the old ladj 7 used to have 
elaborate dinners for me ; but I put an end to that. 
I eat a chop and a couple of vegetables, a dish of 
macaroni , and a sprig of celery, at three o’clock.” 

“You have the most absolute savoir-vivre ,” said 
Mrs. Hastoun. 

“Have I? I am not so sure about that. There 
are signals posted all along a man’s course, — not too 
much. One pulls up a little naturally at these warn- 
ings, — when one is not hungry. I used to like 
turtle-soup, a truffled filet , and a bottle of iced 
clicquot. Now I am in love with simple pastoral 
pleasures, — nectar, ambrosia.” 

“ What are nectar and ambrosia?” asked Cecil. 

“ Something delicious,” returned Rodney Heriot. 

“ Made of cream and sugar?” 

“ It must be very unhealthy,” said Mr. Haxtoun. 
“ Sweet things ruin the constitution.” 

“Mr. Heriot is talking figuratively, my dear,” 
cried Mrs. Haxtoun. “ He was alluding to simple 
pastoral pleasures ” — 

“ Making hay while the sun shines,” said Alec. 

“ Hay-making will soon be obsolete,” remarked Mr. 
Haxtoun. “ Ensilage is a much better system. v 

“ Oh, please, my dear, do not talk to us about 
ensilage.” 

“But, Jenny, it is an invention of great value, 
not only to the agriculturist, but to sufferers like 
myself from hay-fever.” 

“ Hay-fever? ” said Rodney Heriot. 

“ Everybody except Mr. Haxtoun likes the smell 


TABLE-TALK. 


41 


of new-mown hay,” struck in Mrs. Haxtoun, ner- 
vously. She had a high ideal of what table- 
talk should be. Here was the prettiest and most 
elegant of tables, — crystal, china, silver, damask, all 
most dainty and exquisite. Nothing was lacking ex- 
cept airy and agreeable talk, wit and badinage ; but 
how was even the cleverest of hostesses to contrive 
this, when the host had a way of seizing the lightest 
soap-bubble of allusion, and converting it into a 
heavy missile, which came back with depressing 
effect ? 

“ Mrs. Haxtoun always pretends not to believe in 
hay-fever,” said her husband, with a painful smile, 
“ although I have been a victim to it for forty years. 
I assure you, Mr. Heriot, it is a form of martyr- 
dom occasioning acute suffering, although it wins 
scant sympathy. The moment the grass is cut in the 
neighborhood all my nasal mucous membrane ” — 

“ Yes, yes, dearest Leonard, I know how you 
suffer,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, soothingly; “but” — 

“ Smell — respiration through the usual air-pas- 
sages — becomes difficult ; tears stream ” — 

“ I know, I know,” murmured Mrs. Haxtoun. 

“ By all means let us have ensilage,” said Rodney 
Heriot. “ Such woes make ordinary hay too dear.” 
“ What is ensilage?” asked Cecil. 

“ I don’t know, Miss Haxtoun. Is it not enough 
to satisfy you that it will lighten the sum of human 
misery ? ” 

“ It seems a deuced pity,” said Mr. Snow, with 
deep emphasis, “that everything time-honored, pic- 
turesque and poetic should be ” — He paused and 
fumbled for a word. 


42 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Banished, Edgar,” murmured Miss Winchester, 
apprehending the critical condition of his struggling 
idea, which could not entirely break its shell. 

“ So to speak — banished. Now, formerly, there 
were the mowers and their scythes, — regular old 
Father Times, you know.” 

“ And now they have mowing-machines instead,” 
said Miss Winchester, brightening visibly at her clear 
perception of her lover’s meaning. 

‘‘And before long the grass will be whisked off 
without even falling to the ground, and there won’t 
be an atom of ” — Mr. Snow, whose eloquence was 
spasmodic, was lost again. 

“Poetry; no ‘midsummer when the hay was 
down’; nothing but tame, stupid prose,” finished 
Miss Winchester, realizing that they were emerging 
from the ordeal with eclat. 

“Often eighteen and twenty handkerchiefs a 
day,” Mr. Haxtoun was now heard to say, having 
struggled manfully against difficulties and secured a 
listener in Medhurst. “ A perpetual tendency to ” — 

Airs. Haxtoun breathed more freely. Medhurst 
was listening to his employer with an air of absorbed 
attention, and she began to realize that some com- 
pensation might exist for her in the general scheme 
of things. If Mr. Haxtoun were to find a congenial 
companion in his secretaiy, — in other words, an 
apparently admiring listener, — the average, of 
domestic joy at Rosendale might be considerably in- 
creased. It would be, in fact, Medhurst’s duty to 
listen to Mr. Haxtoun, whether he discussed Aryan 
epics or his indigestions. He could listen, too, with- 
out any feeling that he was doing his patron a wrong. 


TABLE-TALK. 


43 


A wife must beware of helping to build up preposter- 
ous illusions in her husband’s inind of his being a 
more momentous and interesting person than he 
really is ; yet at the same time she must not venture 
to hint at the most obvious oversight in his views, 
or in any way to be in the right herself. His confi- 
dent assertions of the erroneous must be cautiously 
met with by her “ Don’t you think,” or, “ But if ” — 
and other expedients of the nicest tact, and the 
most delicate evasions. But Medhurst need not be 
too conscientious ; he need not insist on the formal 
agreement of his private premises and Mr. ITax 
toun’s conclusions. He was paid for the work, and 
need not stick at obstacles in the way. Insensibly 
the cloud lifted from Mrs. Haxtoun’s pretty brow, 
and when she led the way into the parlor, and 
arranged the whist-table, she felt almost grateful to 
the chance which had brought a young fellow like 
Medhurst to the house. He could play whist with 
his patron ; and for Mr. Ilaxtoun to have a partner 
at whist who was neither his wife, nor his son, nor 
his daughter, was a solid gain of comfort. 

Medhurst was nothing loth. He liked the look of 
the long, pleasant room, full of easy-chairs and wide, 
roomy sofas ; but he would have felt oppressed if he 
had been forced to sit down without other occupa- 
tion than to watch and listen to the groups. He 
took his seat opposite the old gentleman at the 
whist- table, congratulating himself that at last the 
eternal flow of disputations must pause, — whist was, 
at least, a silent game. Miss Winchester and Mr. 
Snow were the other partners. Mrs. Haxtoun sat 
down with her work at a table near, with a shaded 


44 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


lamp, and Cecil took a stool at her feet. Mr. Heriot 
watched everybody’s else movements before dispos- 
ing of himself, and stood at the mantel-piece looking 
at a photograph of Cecil, taken when she was a little 
girl of ten. Alec, who admired the guest and longed 
to be intimate with him, hovered about, but found 
Heriot by no means disposed to talk. 

Meanwhile the first hand of the game at whist 
had been played through, and Mr. Haxtoun and his 
partner had scored the odd trick, which was, Med- 
hurst thought, doing very well, as his own cards had 
promised no such result. 

Mr. Haxtoun, however, began, in a . plaintive 
voice : — 

“ Did you not see, Mr. Medhurst, that Snow was 
ready to trump the heart?” 

“ I confess I did not. And my lead seemed a 
mere choice of evils.” 

“ Never regard it in that way,” said Mr. Haxtoun, 
■with a sort of wail. “A lead is a great opportu- 
nity ; everything depends upon it. And, permit 
me to say, you made three different errors in your 
lead : first, in returning mine you were too precipitate, 
— you should have shown your long suit first, — and 
you should have given me back your strongest card ; 
and allow me to remark that, with the queen, knave, 
and ten, you must invariably lead the queen ; and 
you should have led up to Snow’s weak suit, and 
through Lilly’ strong one.” 

“ Indeed, I Si sorry I was all wrong,” muttered 
Medhurst. “ Stupid of me ! ” 

“And I could have taken that club,” pursued 
Mr. Haxtoun, in a voice of bitter anguish. “ If you 


TABLE-TALK. 


45 


had observed my play you would have seen that I 
had the knave, and it was wholly unnecessary for 
you to trump my nine of diamonds, for it was the 
highest card. It was such a pit} 7 not to have saved 
that trumpu Lilly trumped over you ; she was certain 
to trump, certain,” — Mr. Haxtoun’ s voice rang out 
piercingly, — “ so that my play weakened their hands, 
and your throwing away a spade would have strength- 
ened ours. I am afraid we lost two tricks — two 
tricks ! One more trick I am absolutely sure we 
might have made.” 

By this time Medhurst’s recollections of the hand 
were as faint as “ les nieges d'antan ” ; but he was 
ready to admire his partner’s grasp of the situation. 
He determined to mind his own game, and sum- 
moned all his remote acquirements of rules and sug- 
gestions. But he was at once involved in a dilemma. 
He had a good hand of trumps, but, fancying he saw 
a chance for a profitable “ saw,” he*trumped when 
his partner led a low card. This only was necessary 
to prove to Mr. Haxtoun that he had no knowledge 
of the game. 

“May I inquire how many trumps }’ou had?” 
said Mr. Haxtoun, in a soft voice, his head on one 
side, when the hand was over. 

“ Five,” said Medhurst. 

“Is it possible? Heavens and earth!” cried 
Mr. Haxtoun, infusing all the solemnity of an invo- 
cation into his formula. He then mroceeded to tell 
his partner what had been lost by ms misplay. It 
had been apparently one of those unique opportu- 
nities when the mere cards one holds are of no ac- 
count ; when address, skill, and subtle observation 


46 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS . 


can do everything. Yet, by a simple piece of careless- 
ness, perhaps of ignorance, these possible results 
had been hazarded, put in jeopardy, by that dread- 
ful act of trumping. The affair was really serious. 
Medhurst began to fear the old gentleman would 
shortly come around and collar him, asking him 
what the devil he meant by it. 

“ I don’t believe you could have taken a trick 
more, Uncle Leonard,” observed Lilly. 

“ By Jove, no ! They made three as it was,” put 
in Arthur Snow. 

But that apparently made no difference to Mr. 
Haxtoun, who evidently s’inquietait dk perfection 
bien plies que ae gloire. Medhursfc’s failings and 
shortcomings were no doubt plentiful, but he was 
not allowed to be unconscious of them. He began 
to feel timid, apologetic, and not a little cross ; to 
regard technicalities as a bore, and correctness of 
play as an art beyond him. The old gentleman, 
however, being used to these stormy intervals between 
the hands, was quite contented with his partner, and 
felt no doubt that his partner was equally contented 
with him. 

Mrs. Haxtoun listened from a little distance with 
considerable approval of Medhurst’s bearing under 
affliction. If there must be a secretary it was, 
after all, well to have a } T oung one. A man bears 
the yoke in his youth with better grace than later in 
life. She understood very well that her husband 
was having a%apital time. There was nothing- 
menacing or portentous in his tone yet. Accord- 
ingly she could give a large part of her attention to 
Rodney Heriot, who had drawn an easy-chair near, 


TABLE-TALK. 


47 


and was talking to both her and Cecil. The group, 
to the eyes of a man situated as Medhurst was at 
present, was typical of much that is delightful. He 
took note of Cecil’s attitude, as of other details, and 
wondered what sort of a look was * her eyes as she 



raised them to her admirer. 


watched it all 


without bitterness of feeling, and resolving in his 
own mind never again to enter the parlor v in the 
evening, at the risk of becoming Mr. Haxtoun’s part- 
ner, was not even vindictive against the present form 
of innocent recreation. 


48 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER IV, 


MOTHER AND SON, 


RS. ESTfi’S dining-room would have made a 



-LVJ- good feature of a mediaeval castle. As it 
was it had been the central idea frony which the 
late Mr. Este developed his Queen Anne house, on the 
Delaware. He had found a set of oak furniture in 
the north of England, for which he had wished to 
build a room, and he had spared neither money nor 
trouble to make it perfect. 


“ Carved with figures strange and sweet, 
All made out of the carver’s brain,” 


was the great buffet , which took up half tha side of 
the room, from floor to ceiling ; and so were the tables, 
chairs, and settles. There were friezes of flowers and 
birds ; panels representing chases through wood and 
dell with huntsmen, dogs, and deer ; knights and ladies ; 
gargoyles and grinning masks ; coats-of-arms, crests 
and quarterings ; legends cut into every moulding in 
quaint characters, giving homely old Saxon proverbs 
and saws. The room was so dark, with its black 
carvings, its crimson and leather, its oak-studded 
ceiling, that it required all the morning sunshine 
which could pour in, and all the vistas the open 


MOTHER AND SON. 49 

doors and windows commanded into the out-door 
radiance of earth and sky. There were, too, the 
glitter of massive gold and silver on the sideboard ; 
the white of the lace-bordered linen, which just 
.covered the top of the table without hid^ the rare 
carvings of the sides, and the brillianWolors of 
the porcelain. Mrs. Este, sitting in her high-backed 
chair, needed just such a background to set off her 
white morning-gown, her delicate, babyish old face, 
the little, fluffy, silvery curls, surmounted by a bit 
of Iloniton. Mrs. Est6 had been far from young 
when she made her first marriage forty years be- 
fore, and one felt almost a dread of knowing what 
her actual present age might be. Her son was 
in the habit of rallying her concerning it when he 
wished to vex her. 

“ I* was a 3'oung woman when you were born, 
Rodney,” she would reply, “ and a pretty woman; 
so you can quarrel with me for nothing.” 

This was true. Mrs. Est6 had been an acknowl- 
edged beauty at the time of her marriage to Mr. 
Heriot, §nd after his death had been a fascinating 
widow for ten years, but had then made a second al- 
liance. Her first match had been a good one ; the 
second waqjjorilliant. Mr. Est6 was one of the most 
successful railroad men of his da}’, and at his death 
left his property unconditionally to his widow. 
Rodney Heriot had been nineteen when his mother 
married Mr. Est6, and there had been some es- 
trangement between mother and son in consequence. 
She had had three children by her first husband, of 
whom the eldest, a girl, died in infancy, and Her- 
bert, the youngest, at the age of ten. Thus Rodney 


50 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


was the only survivor. Whatever he became in 
after-life, as a boy he was inclined to wholesome, 
youthful, romantic views. He adored his pretty 
little mother, and Hamlet hardly suffered more at his 
parent’s s^ond marriage. “Hyperion to a satyr” 
would hawbeen to his mind a mild rendering of the 
difference between his father and his successor. Mr. 
Este was considerably younger than his wife ; a Swiss 
by birth, a German by education, who had made a 
lucky invention and brought it to this country, where 
he realised handsomely upon it. He then applied 
the proceeds to large financial operations, whose 
success was so fabulous, so unprecedented, that the 
insignificant little man became to every one save his 
step-son a most important personage. The two 
hated each other, and when Rodney was twenty- 
one Mr. Este told his wife to give over to her boy 
every cent of his father’s fortune and let him go. 
Rodney went, nothing loth. “ 4 Banished? What’s 
banished but set free from daily contact with the 
things I loathe?’” he declaimed, like a second 
Catiline. t • 

For the ensuing fourteen years Mrs. Est6 had a 
grievance which her husband was ready to acknowl- 
edge. He had sent her only child awa^from her, 
and he had the loss to make good. He lavished 
upon her everything she wanted, and sfie wanted 
everything the world contained. Every” summer she 
went to Europe, and if Rodney had nothing pleas- 
anter to do he joined her for a month at her villa on 
the Lago Maggiore, — days longed for by the poor, 
withering beauty, then wasted in poignant vexations, 
bickerings, and recriminations ; finally regretted and 


MOTHER AND SON. 


51 


remembered as if they had brought her the sweetest 
maternal joys. When Este finally lay dying he 
probably knew that it was certain to be Rodney 
Heriot who was to profit by his accumulations, — the 
boy he had hated for his handsome faqe and his 
patrician air, quite as much as for his gibes, his sar- 
casm, his freakish rebellions. Rodne}' had spent all 
his own money long before his step-fathei^s death, 
and had, in fact, been living on his mother’s secret 
remittances for five years. In his confused impres- 
sions of his relations to life and the world in general 
it had mattered little to him where his money came 
from so long as he had it in his pocket. Sometimes, 
when he had felt worn out, and had indulged in hazy 
wishes for something which might profit him more 
than his incessant pursuit after enjoyment, he had 
expressed an opinion that it would be a good thing 
if Este were to die and give him a chance to go home 
and live with his mother. But when the longed-for 
event actually came to pass Rodney showed no 
haste to change his ways of life. 

Ui¥ler the circumstances Mrs. Este felt that the 
least she could do was to show herself a deeply- 
afflicted widow. She wrote sheet upon sheet of 
black-bordered note-paper to her son,\telling him 
how good her poor August had been to her. She 
talked about her religious aspirations and conso- 
lations, and quoted from the devotional books she 
was reading at this crisis. Rodney only glanced 
through these effusions. He knew his pretty mamma 
so well by this time that he believed her only ambi- 
tion was to pose for a part, and play it out success- 
fully. He had found so much that was false in her 


52 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


it hindered his belief in the true. He had seen her a 
widow before, in sweeping crape gowns, with a huge 
frill at her throat and a coquettish cap, Thomas & 
Kempis in one hand and a crumpled black-bordered 
handkerchief in the other, wet with her incessant 
tears. The spectacle then had filled him with the 
tenderest woe. Nowadays he smiled at present and 
past with equal disbelief. 

“ I know you are in a dreadful state of grief over 
the late lamented Est6,” Rodney wrote to her. 44 A 
man so pleasing, so refined, so complete in all the 
essentials which enchant a woman’s taste, must be 
properly mourned. It is a mysterious dispensation, 
which cut him off in the flower of his days, and left 
you to enjoy his wealth. But take heart of grace ; 
these sorrows for rich husbands have their compen- 
sations. As for my going home to mingle my tears 
with yours the thought is too affecting. By-and- 
by, when your grief is a trifle, quenched, you may 
expect a visit from me.” 

Time did wonders for Mrs. Este, and at the end 
of six months she made no more allusions tp her 
husband, used cream-tinted paper, and wrote to .her 
son he had better come. Something more enticing 
was on hand for his amusement, however, and he 
put it off for a year. When he finally came he took 
his mother by surprise. She had intended to be in 
New York at the time of his arrival ; but had been 
staying in the country, too despondent to go back 
to her town life, and take up her social duties. She 
felt old and lonely, and was unhappy about her boy. 
He was not a good son to her, she told herself, 
with bitter tears in her weary old eyes. She 


MOTHER AND SON. 


53 


seemed suddenly surprised that Rodney should in 
any way have failed to meet her wishes, and answer 
her needs. She had trained him faultlessly as re- 
gards manners ; he had the air of a little prince from 
the time he was admitted to her table, a velvet- 
coated stripling. She had spared no pains to give 
him the correct tone ; she had taught him what was 
fit, and what was unfit, for the liking of a man of the 
world. He was to know everything to a degree, — 
eat of every apple once. To touch his heart, save 
with admiration of her own prettiness and elegance, 
she had never striven ; to foster his aspirations after 
things noble, pure, and lofty, instead of deaden- 
ing them by cynical representations of the meaning 
of the life which went on about her, had been an 
effort beyond her little, frivolous, worldly brain. 
But when he had been a little lad he had worshipped 
her, hovering about her with adoration in his blue 
eyes ; and she wanted his love now. She had always 
had somebody devoted to her, and she knew not how 
to live without some sort of incense. The flavor 
had gone out of life now that the little, fussy, 
anxious, ambitious Este was no longer at her side, 
to stimulate her into efforts to display his wealth, 
and outshine the wives of his fellows on Wall 
street. 

Early in March, two months or more before our 
story opens, Rodney Ileriot walked into his mother’s 
house one day. He had been seized by a whim to 
come, he said, but should probably take the steamer 
back next week, as he wanted to be in London 
by Easter. Nevertheless he stayed on. He be- 
came at first conscious of comfort; his rooms 


54 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


were pleasant ; the house was full of idle servants 
devoted to him. He found, too, that his mother 
had grown older, and her man of business told him 
that she ought not to be left alone, for she got 
morbid and flighty. Added to these inducements to 
remain Rodney had another. 

“ If you will marry Cecil Haxtoun,” Mrs. Est6 
said, when he had been at home six weeks, “ I will 
make a handsome provision for you. Of course 
you will have ever} T thing when I die, but you will 
not need to wait for that.” 

Rodney showed no marked indication of purpose 
after this suggestion, but he said nothing further 
concerning any intention to spend the season in 
England. He had come back to his mother loaded 
with debts, but he had not confessed them. He 
had always observed that by maintaining absolute 
silence concerning his affairs he kept her in dread of 
disclosures which might terrify her, and made her 
anxious to stave off any trouble by lavish presents. 
Thus her generosity had already cleared up matters 
for him, and he was perhaps glad to feel himself for 
the present safely out of all danger of getting into 
new scrapes. 

After these explanations let us return to the din- 
ing-room, where Mrs. Este and Rodney Heriot were 
eating their breakfast, the morning after he had 
taken tea with the Haxtouns. He had, as usual, 
come down at nine o’clock, and found his mother in 
her chair. He kissed her forehead and took his 
place opposite. There was a certain degree of like- 
ness between mother and son, although the points 
which had made beauty in her, in his case gave 


MOTHER AND SON . 


55 


mere delicacy and refinement. Two men-servants 
brought the breakfast, and then hung about the 
sideboard until dismissed. Mrs. Est6 made her 
son’s coffee herself, with little, withered, trembling 
hands, pouring a few spoonfuls of black liquid out 
of a diminutive silver pot, and filling up the cup 
with cream. She herself ate and drank nothing 
save her bouillon. It seemed only by an effort 
that she sipped that. The truth was, that until her 
son came home she had not for years been up till 
noon, and she could not gather her forces until late in 
the day. Still, she pertinaciously insisted that her 
nerveless, weary old body should be dragged out of 
bed at eight o’clock, sponged, rubbed, dressed, and 
led downstairs, that she might lend a charm to her 
boy’s breakfast-table. There was nothing more 
amusing to Rodney himself than making an entire 
change of his habits. It had not belonged to his 
scheme of existence to rise punctually at half-past 
eight o’clock, breakfast on simple, wholesome food, 
walk over the place, pay a morning visit, and spend 
his evenings in a dull household, making himself 
interesting, if possible, to mother and daughter; 
but he accepted these necessary sacrifices cheer- 
fully. He liked at present this absence of sensa- 
tion and of all excitement. He enjoyed the 
solidity of his mother’s possessions, aud there was 
some piquancy in the notion that presently they 
would all be his, to make ducks and drakes of if he 
wanted to. Under these circumstances, with some 
millions in his own right, what would he want, what 
should he like? He waited to see. 


56 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


lie patched the trembling motions of his mother’s 
hands as she made his coffee. 

“ Poor old lady ! ” he said. “ What makes you get 
up at this hour of the day ? You might be stronger 
if you were to lie in bed till noon.” 

“ Oh, I am strong! I go to bed early. I like 
to be up in the morning,” returned Mrs. Est6. 

“ You were in bed when I came in, last night,” 
said Rodney. 

“ I went at ten o’clock. I got dismal. Do you 
ever get dismal, Rodney? ” 

“ Dismal? I don’t know what you mean. If I 
am bored and savage with what I am doing I go and 
do something else.” 

“ But then, a woman can’t, — at any rate an old 
Woman. I get frightened. Some day I shall die, 
and I wonder to myself if I am a dreadful -sinner, 
and what will become of me.” 

“No doubt you’re a sinner. You’ve got good 
wages in this world, as anybody can see who looks 
about this house. You can’t expect all this, and 
heaven too.” He laughed loudly. 

Mrs. Est6 shuddered. Twenty times a day she 
made some kind of an appeal to Rodney’s tender- 
ness, and each time when she was repulsed she said 
to herself it was not worth her while grinding her 
teeth upon the stone he offered her. 

“Well, well,” she now said, with a shrug of her 
thin shoulders, “ we are all sinners, I suppose. 
You are one, I know.” 

“ I never pretended to be anything else.” 

“ You must now. You must be upon your best 
behavior. Cecil Haxtoun is a very bright girl.” 


MOTHER AND SON. 


57 


“ Yes, she is bright.” 

“ Did you have a pleasant time last evening? ” 

“ If yon suppose I have a good time going over to 
hear that old man maunder on about his dyspepsia 
and other complaints, and blow up his partner at 
whist, your imagination concerning my preferences 
is not lively.” 

“ But you go all the time.” 

u One is thankful to have anything to do in the 
country. By Jove! I shall end by falling in love 
with that girl. I get so little of her society it keeps 
my appetite at the keenest.” 

“ You mean that you don’t see Cecil?” 

“ Oh, I see Cecil, — pretty little devil that she is ! ” 

44 If you see her that ought to satisfy you.” 

“Ought it? You’ve been a pretty woman your- 
self, and must know how admirably it contents a man 
to see a girl and never have her to himself. Every- 
thing in the world should be enjoyed in its own 
special way. I like a picture on the wall, but ” — 

44 Your time will come. She is young; she will 
keep.” 

“The other night,” continued Rodney, with his 
loud, rather sharp laugh, 44 1 contrived to get her on 
a sofa beside me. Mrs. Haxtoun seemed to be 
asleep in her chair, and the engaged noodles were in 
the next room. 4 Now,’ said I to myself, 4 I’ll see 
if I can warm her up a little.’ She had been an 
iceberg all the evening. She looked delicious, — 
that side-view of her cheek, and ear, and throat ; 
occasionally she turned her face and let me see her 
eyes. Well, just as I was about to say something 
that would rankle stalked the old gentleman, on 


58 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


his way to bed, with a basket of silver in each 
hand. He observed, with disappointment and dis- 
gust, that a visitor was still there, and began to 
march up and down the room.” 

“ What did you do? ” 

u I came away. If Cecil had been a married 
woman, and the enemy her husband, it might have 
paid to stay till past midnight. He is the most in- 
supportable old bore ! I wonder what kind of an 
old man I shall make. Do you suppose I shall turn 
out such a burlesque on humanity as most old fel- 
lows? ” 

“ You never know what a man may develop into 
after he becomes a pere de famiUe.” 

“ I swear I will keep on the safe side, then.” 

“You are too clever, too much the master of 
yourself, to turn out a bore.” 

“Spare my rosy blushes. I don’t imagine old 
Ilaxtoun bears the most phantasmal resemblance to 
what he was as a 3 T oung man.” 

“ I remember him when he married Jane Schuyler. 
He was twenty years older than she, but it was con- 
sidered a charming match. But he was a regular 
old bachelor, had lived all his life in Philadelphia, 
and an)d)od3 r might have foreseen just the set, formal 
routine he would take a girl into.” 

“ You want me to marry Cecil. I must be fifteen 
years older than she is.” 

“ But you have not lived in Philadelphia all your 
life.” 

“ I have missed those moral advantages, surely.” 

“ Mrs. Ilaxtoun mourns over Cecil’s small oppor- 
tunities. Years ago Mr. H^ J ^un would insist ou 


MOTHER AND SON. 


59 


living in the country, in order that he might avoid 
noise and interruptions, and she was glad to give in, 
that she might save expense, and be able to spend 
lavishly on her children’s education. As soon as 
Cecil was eighteen she went to pass half the year 
in town ; but Mr. Haxtoun could not be coaxed into it. 
She longed to go to Europe ; but he will not consent 
to go himself, or let her go until he has finished his 
book.” 

“ Cecil has had opportunities enough. The 
mother wants to marry her to an English peer, no 
doubt.” 

“ At any rate, if the girl had been brought up in 
a different way }'ou would not have liked her so 
well.” 

“ How well do you suppose I like her?” asked 
Rodney. He had finished his breakfast, and was 
leaning back in his chair, holding a cigar in his left 
hand. There was enough of boyishness in his 
look and attitude to flatter maternal illusions that 
he- retained poetry and high spirits beneath the 
crust of worldliuess which he liked to exhibit. She 
nodded with a motion which fluttered the airy little 
curls about her forehead. 

“ I think you like her pretty well already,” said 
she. 

He snapped his thumb and finger. 

“ I never actually cared that for any woman,” he 
exclaimed. 

“ I do not believe it.” 

“Believe it or not, as you like; but I never 
cared that for any woman,” he said, repeating the 
action. 


60 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Do 3’ou mean to say that you were never on 
your knees before any woman?” 

“Oh, plenty of them ! ” 

Mrs. Est 6 shook her head. 

“ Then I am sorry for you. It is not to your 
credit. I don’t know why you shouldn’t have in- 
herited a heart. Your father ” — She pulled herself 
up a little. She had learned not to sentimentalize 
about herself and her experience. “But you will 
fall in love now. Cecil is charming,” she said, with 
vivacity. “ Shouldn’t you like a wife? ” 

“ For a week, — 3*es.” 

“Oh, you will fall in love! Something will rise 
presently, and master that hard, cynical intellectu- 
ality of your nature. When it comes give 3 T ourself 
up to it. Let it come, like a wave drowning reason 
and resistance.” 

Rodne3* laughed again. 

“ I am not unwilling. I admire the girl.” 

“Does she like you?” asked Mrs. Est 6 , peering 
into her son’s face. It seemed to her he flushed a 
little. 

“ How should I know? I never asked her.” 

“ Does she treat \ 7 ou uniformly alike? ” 

“Uniformly alike? She is as changeable as the 
wind. One time she seems ready to crush me with 
her cool disdain, and will hardly throw me a word. 
Then again she will be brimming over with talk, and 
pour it out until her mother puts an extinguisher on 
her. Sometimes she is soft enough to melt in my 
mouth, and again she puts my teeth on edge.” 

“Mark my words,” said Mrs. Est 6 ; “ she is in 
love witli3 T ou, Rodney.” 


MOTHER AND SON 


61 


He bent down his head, and leaned his chin upon 
his breast. His color had certainly risen, and his 
mother watched him with some feminine triumph. 

“ How could she help being in love with you?” 
Mrs. Est6 pursued. “ She never saw anybody to 
compare with you.” 

“ I’m not so sure of my fascinations. Take rather 
a reckless, brilliant woman of the world, and I do 
very well ; with Fanny Dalton, for instance, nothing 
is wasted. She knows everything, understands every- 
thing, and one loses nothing there ; she gives one 
back as good as she gets, if it is only by the curve 
of her lips, or the laugh in the corner of her eyes. 
But a young girl ! Who can tell what is going on 
in that mind of hers? With all that fire there must 
be plenty of fuel. There is nothing she will stop 
at, if she feels inclined to say it ; yet she is appar- 
ently absolutely unconscious that her words carry 
the least meaning. Impelled by the irresistible 
feminine instinct for forbidden fruit, she constantly 
breaks over barriers and boundaries.” 

“Cecil is so innocent! You ought to adore her 
for it. You ought to thank her mother for bringing 
her up under her own eye” — 

“ I have seen girls before brought up under their 
mother’s eye ; yet what they did not know was not 
worth knowing. However, I do not say I disbelieve 
in innocence and ignorance ; and if I were to 
marry, I should like to marry an innocent girl, who 
was in love with me.” * 

“ I predict that you will.” 

“If she falls in love with me at present, it is 
sheer disinterested goodness on her part. I am dull ; 


62 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


I am insipid ; I am too serious. With a father 
who is a perfect wind-bag of conceit and whim, 
and a mother who is afraid her daughter will not 
be safely chaperoned, I have no chance. If you 
really want to do anything for me, mother, now is 
your time ! Give me an opportunity to make love 
to Cecil.” 

“I’ll ask her over here.” 

“ She will be petrified by the infernal dulness of 
the place. Use your invention. Entertain a little.” 

“ Suppose I ask Fanny Dalton to come for a 
month. She has written again and again, begging 
an invitation.” 

“ There is alwaj's so much drama where Fanny 
is.” 

“That is what you want, — drama. Fanny 
wants to marry you ; but you will not let her marry 
you.” 

“ No, — not if I can help it.” 

“But, utterly convinced of the impossibility of 
that, she would help you to marry somebody else.” 

“ All I w r ant is somebody to keep things going.” 

“ Keep things going, and herself on top of them. 
I will promise Fanny an outfit from Paris — one or 
two of Worth’s dresses in it — if she will help us.” 

“ You have the ingenuity of the evil one. When 
Satan wishes to lure woman into his kingdom, he 
sings just such a song as yours. Write to Fanny.” 

Rodney’s commands were rarely so definite. It was 
generally a trifle benumbing to his mother’s powers 
to feel that he wished anything from her. lie indulged 
in the most generalizing form of speech while in- 
timating his wishes ; but there was no lack of 


MOTHER AND SON. 


63 


definite decision in bis actual requirements, and 
everything left undone was certain to stir anger of a 
swift, deeply cutting kind. He was in a very good 
humor to-day. Mrs. Est6 followed him to the door, 
and stood there a moment in the sunshine, and 
watched him light his cigar and stroll across the 
lawn towards the stables. She was not apt to show 
herself in so strong a light ; but there was no one 
here to observe her. In spite of the prettiness and 
infantillage of her make-up, she looked old and 
felt old. The soft wind moved the white, airy curls 
about her forehead, and freshened her a little. How 
bright the world was ! Everything was green ; 
everything was bursting into blossom, all the air 
had a scent of flowers. But such beauty mocked 
her. She had no part in it. She must huddle into 
the twilight, and hear from far, far away the mur- 
mur of the world to which she had once belonged. 
She must use what little strength she had writing to 
Fanny Dalton. Fanny would be an efficient person 
in this great, silent house. 

Mrs. Este crept upstairs, and sat down in her 
morning-room before her desk. She pondered 
vaguely over Rodney’s mental attitude towards Cecil. 
He wanted to be loved, which was a more fatal sign 
in a man like him than being in love. Perhaps he 
felt, — who knows ? — that he had not compassed a 
fair experience. He had not had much love yet ; no 
sisters, no cousins ; perhaps, as he said, no inam- 
oratas. She wondered what he had been through. 

O 

Sometimes, looking at his delicate, cold-cut face 
and his cruel blue eyes, she felt as if he had a whole 
inferno of memories behind him ; but he was living 


64 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


quietly enough now. Mrs. Est6 had good taste. 
She always took a certain tone with men concerning 
young girls ; but in her heart she fully believed Cecil 
was anxious to marry her son. lie was almost an 
ideal parti. He would have everything to give a 
wife; and what else does a girl ask? Cecil was 
clever ; she had been trained in the art de se fa ire 
valoir . Girls were clever. How clever she had 
been herself ! — too clever sometimes. But she was 
no longer clever, but old and dull. Sometimes she 
longed to be quiet in her last sleep, pitiless although 
the grave was. At the thought now she shuddered, 
nevertheless. Something seemed to clutch at her 
out of the darkness, and she had nothing with which 
to save herself. 

The thought of Fanny Dalton was an anchor. 
She drew her paper towards her, and scrawled a 
letter of invitation. 


MEDBURST. 


65 


CHAPTER V. 

MEDHURST. 

“IV/rEDHURST was introduced to Mr. Haxtoun’s 
great subject the morning after his arrival, 
and for the fortnight ensuing he spent all his time 
and much of his energy in mastering the details of 
the work, already in a sense completed, and putting 
the vast accumulations of what the author called 
“ material ” into shape for future use. He found that 
the secretaryship, which he could not yet make up 
his mind frankly to accept, was at least no sinecure. 
However he might regard the worth of his occupa- 
tions they were sufficient to engross all his time. 
He breakfasted at half-past seven, then went to the 
study, whence he did not emerge until dinner at 
three. After an hour at table he returned to his 
desk, and employed himself making out a fair copy 
of his short-hand report of Mr. Haxtoun’s dictation. 
Towards sunset he went down to the river-bank, 
took a skiff, and rowed up the river ; then drifted back 
in the dusk, often lying at full length in the bottom 
of the boat. Tea was over when he came in, but he 
found his meal set out on the study-table, and ate and 
drank without troubling even a servant. At first he 
had been asked into the parlor eveiy evening ; but 
after rigidly declining, on the score of necessity for 


66 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


hard work before bedtime, he was presently left to 
himself. The evenings were now too warm and too 
short for Mr. Haxtoun’s game of whist, and dearer 
io that gentleman than any game was the certainty 
that his great work was making fair progress. 

The Aryan epics soon became well-worn ground 
to Medhurst. They offered at first a return to the 
old- fairy-land of poetry and romance. The noble 
and beautiful forms and heroic pictures, the sponta- 
neous impulse of action and feeling kindling even 
the simplest of the stories, fascinated him. After 
making his living for years by dressing up the every- 
day horrible and commonplace into something the 
public should find readable, it was grateful to free 
his mind of limitations and answer this beckoning to 
wide horizons. Their orbit was a large one, for Mr. 
Haxtoun’s scheme halted at nothing. After leaving 
his secretary to revel for a time in this carnival of 
fane} 7 , the author blandly remarked that now, having 
surveyed the field, they would set to work. Their 
object must be to grasp the whole subject, — omit 
nothing essential, yet allow no rudimentary details 
to hinder the concentration of their attention upon 
the important points. 

The plan required nothing more than the clearest 
judgment, the most ample and trained powers, the 
most systematic and careful labor. In order to com- 
plete the work within two years, Mr. Ilaxtoun went 
on to say, they must get ready ten pages of fools- 
cap, amounting to some three thousand five hundred 
words, daily. He had prepared copious notes, and 
was ready to dictate with the unfaltering speech of 
a sibyl, who overflows w ith inspiration from higher 


MED IIURST. 


67 


powers. Medhurst, on his side, was ready to write 
twenty pages of foolscap, if need be. All he wanted 
was to give fair service, and earn his wages. There 
were difficulties in the way of these excellent results, 
however, which the young man had not foreseen. 
Mr. Haxtoun’s literary style was not clear ; it was 
far from concise ; it seemed at times the answer to 
the old riddle, and went round and round the house 
without ever touching the house. Unfortunately, 
too, when occasionally Medhurst wished to pare and 
prune, his suggestions only put the author on his 
guard. 

“ You see, my dear young friend,” said the old 
gentleman, “ you are a journalist, and have found 
it essential to acquire a style, which, though neat and 
epigrammatic, would seem flippant in a great work 
like this, which embodies solid and massive thought. 
I would rather take a long life to do one thing 
well, than accomplish fifty whose perfection was 
marred by impatience and over-haste. Don’t you 
see the force of my remarks ? ” 

“I certainly do,” said Medhurst. “But, after 
all, it is no bad training for an amanuensis to write 
for a daily paper. He learns to be accurate, as well 
as swift, — like the rider who has to jump through 
the hoop at the exact moment, or he will find no 
horse under him.” 

“I will make a note of that illustration, if 3^011 
will allow me,” said Mr. Haxtoun. “I may make 
striking use of it when I am drawing my conclusions. 
But, after all, your application of it is a fallacy. If I 
recall aright my early experience at the circus there 
were a good many hoops, and the rider only jumped 


68 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS . 


when be had plenty of breath and a good chance of 
safety.” 

Medhurst half groaned, but made no reply. He 
had begun to believe that to question Mr. Haxtoun’s 
methods, and sift his facts too vigorously, would be 
to upset many of his most cherished deductions. 
Sometimes it seemed to him that a good stiff breeze 
of inquiry would blow everything to the ends of the 
earth ; that all was chaff, and that there was no 
kernel of good wheat in the whole mass at which he 
was working. However, he said within himself, 
what did it matter? Mr. Haxtoun had taken up the 
occupation for his own enjoyment. There was no 
doubt of his excellent scholarship ; and if he had 
undertaken to edit a classic he might have found his 
powers amply recognized ; but having, in some un- 
lucky moment, been seized by the notion that the 
same idea lay beneath the Achilles of the Greeks 
and the Siegfried of the Goths, Ulysses and 
Tannhauser, he was in danger of being lost in a 
morass, bewildered and benighted. Faith had at 
first not been wanting in Medhurst, and, at times 
still, he had days of pure enjoyment. But Mr. 
Haxtoun’s speculations turned over and over in such 
endless vortices, his intricacies were so deep, and 
his mysteries so insoluble, that Medhurst began 
to regard the worth and authenticit3 r of the plainest 
facts with scepticism, and could hardly avoid a 
tendency towards ridicule and opposition. But, 
after all, what did it matter? Medhurst reiterated 
to himself. Mr. Haxtoun had engaged him to do 
the work of a mere machine ; the author might die 
before his labors were complete ; even if finished 


MEDHURST. 


69 


nothing depended on their success ; if he liked to 
work with a probable result of dismal failure, it was 
merely failing, — nothing save his vanity could suffer, 
— and better men than he, with salvation depending 
on success, had worked wisely and still failed. All 
he could do, Medhurst insisted to himself, was to 
fulfil his part of the bargain, and turn out at least 
ten fair pages of copy a day. 

Mr. Haxtoun, on his side, was delighted with his 
secretary’s capacity for steady, intelligent work. 
The pile of sheets, growing day by day in his desk, 
were beautiful in his eyes. He handled them- with 
a smile ; he showed them every day to his wife and 
visitors, and read passages aloud to any one he could 
get to listen. He was already negotiating for the 
publication of the first volume, and discussing the 
style of binding. 

Medhurst’s introduction to Rosendale had be- 
wildered him a little by its unexpectedness, and not 
even the experience of the game of whist did away 
with the novelty of his impressions. After a night 
spent in alternating between wakefulness and rest- 
less dreams, in which he was perpetually following a 
slight, erect figure flitting on before him, an arch face, 
full of the sweetest mischief, constantly turning back, 
he decided that he must use all his strength of mind 
not to have his fancy taken possession of by a witch 
like Cecil, against the power of whose charms no 
ordinary resistance would avail. He was appar- 
ently, however, to encounter few temptations. His 
daily routine became fixed and remained unchanged, 
and involved no dangers to his peace. He occasion- 
ally had a talk with Alec ; but his acquajhftance with 


70 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


the ladies of the family progressed very slightly. 
Mr. Haxtoun engrossed him all through dinner, and 
when he was about to rise Mrs. Haxtoun made a 
point of putting a few gracious questions to him. 
As for Cecil, she hardly addressed him at all. She 
was invariably late at dinner, having been too full 
of occupations to dress in time. Once in her place 
she absorbed everyone at the table except her father, 
beginning to narrate, with the liveliest energy and 
the most unblushing candor, everything she had 
seen, said, and done since breakfast: She was a 
very -pretty spectacle of a lovely, babbling child ; 
yet piquanc}' was not lacking, nor knowledge of the 
world either, in the accounts of her morning’s 
amusements. 

Medhurst discovered the art of seeming to listen 
to Mr. Haxtoun, — who invariably took dinner for an 
opportunity to shape out some new fancy, and ex- 
haust its significance in a sea of endless twaddle, — 
while in reality he observed Cecil closely. He 
gathered facts, remembered them, and drew infer- 
ences. Although he was shut up in the study from 
morning until night, he knew each day more and 
more about Miss Haxtoun and Mr. Rodney Heriot. 
Medhurst had done a little in the way of fiction, — 
ever}^ profession has its curriculum, — and he made 
up his mind to watch and study this love-affair, 
which impressed him as being a little out of the 
usual. Every pleasant morning, between eleven 
and twelve, Mrs. Haxtoun, her daughter and niece, 
were in the habit of repairing to the tennis-ground, 
which was quite easily within the range of Med- 
hurst’s eyes, as he sat at his desk, allhough a group 


MED HURST. 


71 


of laburnums just outside the window screened 
him. He could see, day after day, Mr. Heriot ride 
up the avenue, leave his horse at the stables, and 
saunter across the lawn to the ladies. He had a 
frank, pleasant way with Mrs. Haxtoun and Miss 
Winchester, but before Cecil he seemed a little at a 
loss. His eas}", unembarrassed talk might not 
falter ; but he looked at her with a sort of hesitation. 
It puzzled Medhurst to know why the suitor did 
not advance faster. He considered Heriot the 
luckiest man he had ever met. He had been every- 
where and done everything, and now had ample 
wealth almost within his grasp, and a chance of win- 
ning a beautiful, young, unspoiled girl for his wife. 
A chance? A certainty. Medhurst, over and over, 
with some amusement, told himself that Miss 
Haxtoun was a coquette. She knew her power, and 
was playing with it a little, when she alternated 
between coldness and warmth. One day she would 
listen to Heriot with a sort of shy wonder and silent 
expectation ; at another time she had not a word or a 
look for him, - — her mind seemed elsewhere. She 
could not sit still a moment. She insisted that her 
cousin should play tennis ; then, after her first failure 
in serving, flung down the racket, ran to a flower-bed 
and picked a bouquet, which she tore to pieces when 
made. She would sing to herself until startled by 
her mother’s sharp reprimand, and sometimes break 
out into an inconsequent burst of laughter, as if 
some most amusing thought beguiled her. Next 
day, it might be, she would meet Heriot with the 
most childlike expressions of pleasure, — would look 
at him frankly'and fearlessly and tell him apparently 


72 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


every stray thought which came into her head. 
What stimulated Medhurst’s masculine perceptions 
was the attitude with which Heriot accepted all this. 
He treated these alternations of sweetness, rudeness, 
and trivialty, as if they were nothing particular. 
Medhurst wondered if he were actually in love ; or 
whether he, on his side, had the same ebb and flow of 
impulse, his own reserves, his own imaginations. 
This state of things appeared foolish to a looker-on. 
Medhurst could easily enough understand a man’s 
hesitation to offer merely himself to a beautiful 
girl, 'with a doubt of his own presumption all the 
time. But there was something very comprehensive 
in what a man like Heriot had to offer. Success 
seemed a thing definitely certain. Medhurst felt 
sure that Cecil was easily to be won by such a 
suitor. He remembered, with marvellous vividness 
of memory, how a woman he had once known had 
talked of the chance of a rich marriage, and had 
flung all obligations aside to make one. All the 
bitterness of this recollection made it clear to him 
that no girl had a conception of happiness which 
wealth would not fill. He expected any day to hear 
that Cecil was formally engaged to Heriot, and it 
naturally soothed and moderated his spirit, and 
tranquillized his imagination concerning her. 


“ WHISTLE HER OFF.' 


73 


CHAPTER VI. 

u WHISTLE HER OFF AND LET HER DOWN THE WIND.” 

O NE evening, late in June, Medhurst had . rowed 
up the river towards sunset, and taken his 
supper at a little German beer-garden, on the left 
bank, where a band playt^^ three nights a week. 
The one actual pleasure of^is life at present was 
to be out in his boat. He had always in his early 
days known some river intimately, and had made it 
a part of his fixed belief that for beauty, for ideal 
charm, nothing can equal a river flowing from the 
mountains to the sea. As he rowed up against the 
current, something seemed to lure him on, beckon- 
ing into the far, wide reaches, the mysterious turn- 
ings, the beautiful interminable distances. It always 
seemed to ask him to go on forever, and he wanted 
to go on forever. 

But this evening he had left his boat, and had sat 
smoking and drinking beer in the little garden, set 
round with tubs of budding oleanders and hydran- 
geas, listening to the music, until a distant clock 
struck nine. Then, finding it later than he had sup 
posed, he rose, ran rapidly down the dusky fields to 
the bank, jumped into his boat, tied to a post, loosed 
it, and with a single pull at the oars shot out into 
the middle of the stream. The band still played, 


74 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


but the notes of the violins and flutes only reached 
his ears, and then were merged into the murmurs of 
the river-ripples. A curious little thrill of feeling 
struck him, making him tremble from head to foot, 
as he listened to the far-off, persistent, melancholy 
strain, which repeated itself again and again. The 
sunset had lasted late, but now only showed a pale 
glow in. the north-west ; the lights streamed from the 
garden across the black river; the constellations 
blazing in the north grew nearer; a warm, south 
wind blew up-stream. He felt suddenly lonely — 
bitterly lonely. He asked himself, with a kind of 
passion, why he, and he alone of all men, stood 
isolated in the world. While he had sat listening to 
the music, some vague, nameless ecstasj" had taken 
possession of him, inspiring almost rapture. He had 
seemed to feel the memory, or the expectation, of 
an exquisite happiness. Now it was quite over, 
and he could not recapture his sweet and glowing 
fancy. He felt, instead, the loneliness and silence 
of the world ; the sadness of the black horizon ; 
the solemnity of the high arch of the far-off heav- 
ens, — these toned down his thoughts austerely, 
and gave him a feeling of unrest. He told him- 
self he had two hours’ work to do before bed- 
time, and that his mood had been ridiculous. Still 
it seemed to him impossible to lift his oars and 
row down stream. The music still played and kept 
its hold upon his imagination. All at once he re- 
membered why it had affected him ; it was a waltz 
of Arditi’s, and he had danced it years before with 
Fanny Blake. While he thought of it now, he felt 
the contact of her slender figure ; he experienced 


“ WHISTLE HER OFF.' 


75 


the wild, youthful delirium of the waltz, floating on 
and upborne as if by pinions ; he saw Fanny’s ani- 
mated, pale face, and her melancholy, half-closed 
eyes. He uttered a sort of cry, and stretched out 
his arms. He longed to have her beside him again 
as of old, witty, and sweet, and seductive. While he 
thought of her the music ceased and the glamour fled. 
He snatched his oars and rowed rapidly down the 
river, and in twenty minutes had put up his boat, and 
was crossing the terraces towards the house. Pale 
stars shone out from the depths of rose, honeysuckle, 
and syringa. The air was full, over-full, of perfume. 
He felt a grudging sense, that to go in was to lose 
the beauty of the night, the throbbing joy of this 
early summer out-of-door life. He would have liked 
to sink down among the grass and the blossoms, 
tired by his exertions, and faint from spent emotions, 
and rest the whole night through. But his work 
called him, and he sprang up the steps of the back 
piazza, and vaulted easily over the window-sill into 
the dark book : room. The moment he was inside a 
soft rustle made him aware that he had disturbed some 
occupant, and, almost instantly, a match was 
drawn, and one of the candles in the sconce was 
lighted. 

“Oh, is that you at last, Mr. Medhurst?” said 
a voice he knew very well. 

“Yes, Miss Haxtoun. I jumped in at the win- 
dow very unceremoniously.” 

“ You frightened me terribly,” said Cecil, stfnd- 
ing with the match still burning in her fingers, and 
staring at him with dilated eyes. 

“ But I had no idea you were here,” said Med- 


76 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


hurst, who felt that he was hardly responsible for 
her fears. 

“ Papa sent me for you ever so long ago.” 

“ Indeed! ” 

“ You were not here,” continued Cecil. “ The 
room seemed deliciously cool and quiet. I was so 
tired of talking to the people in the other room I 
sat down in that chair for a moment’s rest, and 
I went to sleep.” 

“ I am very sorry I roused you.” 

“But you did not; I did not sleep long,” she 
pursued confidingly. “ I woke up some little time 
ago. At first I could not make out where I was ; 
then I remembered, and I grew afraid, — I seemed 
so far away from everybody. It was at that 
moment I heard your steps, and sprang up and 
seized a match in a dreadful fright.” 

Her candid recital touched Medhurst pleasantly. 
His mind as he entered had been a little savage ; but 
this might almost serve as an adventure to a man 
who had no adventures. She stood, with her back 
to the light, and, with her white dress, seemed 
almost to shed light herself in the dim room. Her 
charming, slight figure, her bare arms, the frill at 
the elbow, the ruff at her throat, the brilliant, arch 
face, — all these points, thrown into distinct relief, 
were as clear to him as a spirited etching. 

“ Where have you been? ” she asked. 

“ On the river.” 

“ Is that where you go every night?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I have wondered what you did. Do you go 
alone? ” 


“ WHISTLE nER OFF . 


77 


“ Quite alone.” 

“ Do you make visits anywhere? ” 

“ \ isits ? — no. Where should I make visits ? ” 

“ I thought you might know people, — you never 
seem to care for our society.” 

Medhurst felt like laughing. 

“ I have no acquaintances in this vicinity.” 

u You like the exercise, I suppose.” 

“ Perhaps that is it.” 

“You like the change from this dull room.” 

He looked at her, and waited for what she would 
say next. 

“ 1 was thinking about you as I sat here,” she 
now remarked. 

“ Before you went to sleep?” 

“ Yes ; and after I woke up.” 

“ That was extremely kind, and I am flattered.” 

“ Oh, I thought nothing flattering,” she returned, 
looking at him, half-smiling. “ It occurred to me 
that you must be dreadfully lonely.” She pause-d a 
moment, and when he made no reply she went on in 
a half-deprecating manner, as if finding it necessary 

to substantiate this theory. “You are youna;, 

I don’t see how you can be utterly indifferent to 
everything going on among young people. Are you 
really so completely absorbed with those dreary old 
epics? ” 

Medhurst laughed outright. He so rarely laughed 
that this outburst surprised him as much as it did 
Cecil. 

“Don’t ask me to make confessions,” said he. 

“ I might confess too much.” 

“ Don’t you like your work? ” 


78 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


44 Honestly, I like my work very well. If I am 
useful to your father I have no more to ask. He 
pays me good wages.” 

44 Is that everything?” 

44 Everything would be too much.” 

44 I wish I might think you were not bitter and 
sad. You look so sometimes,” persisted Cecil. 

4 4 1 had not the least notion 3 t ou ever looked at 
me.” 

44 Oh, yes ; very often !” said Cecil, unhesitatingly. 
44 If I did not, — if I sat at the table with you day 
after day, and had no idea that you were there, — I 
should be a very dull person.” 

44 If I sit at the table looking bitter and sad,” said 
Medhurst, lightly, 44 1 ought not to expect observa- 
tion. I will try to mend my manners.” 

44 1 see,” cried Cecil, with some petulance, 44 you 
are determined not to be friends with me.” 

“Friends?” repeated Medhurst, somewhat be- 
wildered. 

44 1 should like to know you,” declared Cecil. 44 1 
should like to talk with you ; above all, to hear you 
talk. I always listen to what you say. Have you 
not noticed that? ” 

44 1 so rarely say anything.” 

44 But when you do, ” — she went on breathlessly, 
— 44 then I am sure to listen. I can tell you many 
things you have said,” she added triumphantly. 

44 Look here, Miss Ilaxtoun,” said Medhurst, with 
decision; “you should not say anything like that 
to me. Either you do it in derision, which is cruel, 
or you are over-kind. The position I hold in the 
house in no way entitles me to it. You have your 


“ WHISTLE HER OFF . 


79 


interests ancl occupations ; I have mine. They never 
meet, never mingle.” 

u Y°u d° 110t think I would say it in derision,” 
faltered Cecil, with a crimson face and with a trem- 
bling voice. She was unable to continue. She 
seemed overcome with shame at her own boldness. 
Medhurst looked at her intently. 

“ Perhaps I was harsh,” said he ; “ if so, forgive 
me. I am a rough fellow. You see you had better 
leave me alone.” 

u But you do not think I could say anything in 
derision,” whispered Cecil, her face now quite pale. 

“Honestly, I don’t. But I am not sensitive. I 
am not much of a hero in my own eyes, and have 
no thought of being so in other people’s.” 

Cecil evidently had something more to say, whose 
weight was on her heart and tongue ; but she hesi- 
tated for a moment, and so lost her chance. At this 
instant a servant entered, bringing a message to 
Medhurst from Mr. Haxtoun, requesting his pres- 
ence in the parlor. 

“ I bad quite forgotten,” exclaimed Cecil, with 
her habitual little laugh, “ papa sent me for you.” 

“ I wonder what he wants, — a game of whist? ” 

“ I think not. The room is full of people to- 
night. ” 

Medhurst ran his hand over his hair. 

“ I’m not very presentable ; but it does not mat- 
ter,” said he, feeling that he must be consistent with 
bis proud statement that he did not wish to play the 
part of hero. She led the way at once, and before 
JN^edhurst had received any impression save of fol- 
lowing the crisp, transparent draperies, which set 


80 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


off the tall, slender shape moving on before him, he 
found himself in the parlor, and was called upon by 
Mr. Haxtoun to give chapter and verse in defence 
of some statement the old gentleman had committed 
himself to, which had been challenged by Rodney 
Heriot. 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL .” 81 


CHAPTER VII. 
“nothing, if not CRITICAL.” 



OMETHINGr unwonted in Miss Haxtoun’s 


^ aspect, as she entered the parlor after her talk 
with Medhurst, impressed Rodney Ileriot rather viv- 
idly. It had also a startling effect upon the young 
lady’smamma ; buttheuMrs. Haxtoun had the chance, 
before she slept, of acquainting herself with the 
actual facts in the case, and, without pressing her in- 
quiries with undue emphasis, easily elicited from Cecil 
every word she had said to the secretary, and his an- 
swers to her. Rodney Ileriot, on the other hand, was 
left to draw his own inferences. Cecil had been sent 
to the book-room by her father, and three quarters of 
an hour later came in with Medhurst, looking flushed 
and radiant. Rodney was in a position to be jeal- 
ous, and he became jealous at once. It was evident 
to his perceptions that Medhurst had enjoyed few 
opportunities of talking with Cecil, while his own, 
though more frequent, had left his experience a 
blank. He needed nobody to tell him that he had 
never succeeded in rousing just that degree of ani- 
mation in the young girl. She wore now an air of 
intense excitement, and seemed almost tremulous. 
Thrown into the position of outsider Rodney could 
observe coolly and critical!}". 


82 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


He had given himself up of late to the idea of 
winning Cecil, and had flattered himself he was be- 
having with great judgment and delicacy. His views 
were not extravagant, and what a very young man 
calls love was not the most active of his emotions. 
He wanted novelty, some experience he had never 
had before ; and nothing could be more novel and 
fresh than to give himself up to this intimate and 
personal hope. He had been left to himself since 
he was twenty-one,’ and his habit had been at times to 
ask himself, sceptically, how much enjoyment he had 
got out of life. He never complained aloud, but his 
thought had been that a man never gets what he 
wants in this world : the more he reaches out for 
pleasure at any cost, knowledge at any cost, freedom 
at any cost, — the more of a dull, bound slave he is ; 
compelled to smart every time he tries to snatch at 
the supreme flame which is to satisfy him. These 
doubts of the worth of any existence he had ever 
led, swarming like a cloud of bees, had dinned him 
with their tumults, and stung him as well. He be- 
gan to believe he should end by taking a disgust at 
all the pleasures of life, and find all his early sensi- 
bilities and instincts grow callous. Thus it was a 
genuine surprise to feel himself touched by Cecil. 
Even before his mother’s suggestion that he should 
try to marry her, the wish had crossed his mind ; he 
had said to himself that it might be the best thins: 
he could do. There was something striking to him 
in the fact that his wish and will — usually all astray 
upon a wild road, delighting in their errors and per- 
sisting in their chimeras — were at last bound along 
a straight course, leading up to the very altar-rails. 


“NOTHING, IF NOT CRITICAL. 


83 


He had been struck by Cecil during the first visit he 
paid to her mother, while she sat at the table at 
work, the shaded lamp lighting only her pretty 
hands and the lower part of her lovely face. She 
had not shown the least interest in the conversation 
going on, which had indeed dragged like a dull 
game ; but had occasionally yawned, and passed her 
fingers over her half-shut, sleepy eyes. She had 
seemed to him like an adorable child ; and it was 
always easy for him to love a child. Further inter- 
course had deepened this impression. She seemed to 
him full of childish freaks, all the more piquant be- 
cause he was not slow to understand that her naivete 
came from merely one side of her mind. lie had 
thought to make her a quiet study, beginning with 
this virgin crescent, ,and gradually rounding his ob- 
servation till he reached the full orb ; and it was ex- 
cessively annoying to him that he was to be hurried. 
He had waited for an auspicious moment before he 
struck the key-note of his love-making ; but now it 
seemed to him that he had wasted time. He was 
ready to throw the responsibility of his lukewarm- 
ness upon Mrs. Haxtoun, who chaperoned her daugh- 
ter too carefully. That good lady had tried to show 
him that her child had been as judiciously brought 
up as an European jeunejille. She had read “ Daisy 
Miller ” with a shudder, and thought it very unpatri- 
otic of Mr. James to depict one of his compatriots 
as so lacking in a nice mother and nice ways. She 
knew that Rodney Heriot had taken the chief color- 
ing and bias of his views from his European experi- 
ences ; and hence it was that she had rushed to the 
chaperouage of Cecil, mustering alarming auxiliaries 


84 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


in the shape of defences. Her only fault had been, 
Rodney said to himself, that she bristled up at the 
wrong time ; she would take no hints ; her decorums 
were too palpable, too visible. A duenna should 
merely play the graceful and pretty part of foliage 
to the flower, — she should not hide the flower. But 
he acknowledged all the time that a man should know 
how to pluck the rose he wants, no matter how high 
it grows, nor how closely it is guarded. 

It had quickened his apprehension of his own 
love to see Cecil interested in another man. His 
first sentiment, when introduced to Medhurst, had 
been one of displeasure that Mr. Haxtoun had brought 
back such a young secretary ; but the feeling had 
been momentary, and he had not associated it with 
any dread of rivalry where Cecil was concerned. 
Exactly how dangerous a rival Medhurst was likely 
to prove, Rodney was now anxious to find out. He 
had set him down as a silent, sulky fellow ; but 
there might be something in him which appealed to 
a girl’s imagination. He invited Medhurst to come 
over and breakfast with him ; but Medhurst declined 
on the score of being busy. He then called in his 
wagon to ask Medhurst to drive ; but Medhurst was 
out on the river. Having learned that it was in this 
way the secretary took his recreation, Rodney, the 
following afternoon, himself got a boat, and deter- 
mined to lie in wait. He had a book of Marivaux’s, 
lying wide open in the stern, and, half reclining on 
the bottom of the boat, propped up his chin with 
his hand and pretended to read. He was a steady 
reader of what he called good literature, although he 
had no absolute satisfaction in reading. But what 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL. 


85 


any man had done and felt he liked to do and feel. 
“ La Vie de Marianne” had neither profit nor charm 
for him to-day. He was more interested in looking 
at the various river-fronts of the houses on the banks, 
lie knew them all as kindly, hospitable places ; but 
each, all at once, took on whimsical characteristics 
to him. His mother’s place, with its high red 
chimneys, turrets, oriels, gables, and dormer win- 
dows, seemed a monstrous burlesque ; the Hax- 
touns’ sober gray stone assumed a dreary air. He 
thought of his mother against the illuminated back- 
ground of her life, — a shivering, cowering figure, 
who was letting go her hold of the good things she 
had bartered her soul for. Mr. and Mrs. Haxtoun 
walked across the stage, before his mental view, 
wooden manikins. The very thought of the people 
in the other villas made him yawn ; their green 
lawns, gay with flowers, representing a sure ele- 
ment of dreary gentility and mediocrity. In this 
monotony of commonplaces it might seem as if, 
before a lover’s eyes, the picture of his mistress 
would take on some ideal beauty ; but such was the 
impoverishing influence of Rodney’s present mood 
that even Cecil’s 3’outhful fascinations suffered from 
the damaging tendency. At this moment he re- 
flected that marriage to a beautiful girl was, to a 
man who wanted definite happiness, much like the 
experience of the hungry Bedouin, who stole a sack 
of pearls, thinking it contained corn. What was 
Cecil’s beauty, after all, since, while it might delight 
him once, it was certain to make him miserable a 
thousand times? 

All at once his frame of mind changed : the 


86 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


motionless river-surface, which had placidly mirrored 
the skies, was ruffled by a little breeze, — the first 
breath of evening, freshening and reviving, like a cool 
hand laid on a fevered brow. The slight stirring of 
wind brought the scent of flowers, and some message 
as well, to Rodney, of the throbbing intensity of real 
life going on in the world, but which he had missed. 
He felt the pain and the sweetness and the longing 
of it. At this moment, too, there was a new move- 
ment along the river banks, and from the Ilaxtouns’ 
boat-house shot forth a skiff, which, after gaining mid- 
river, turned straight up-stream, powerfully propelled. 

“ I say ! ” called Rodney. “ I say ! Medhurst ! ” 

Medhurst crossed his oars and looked back at his 
starting-place, then behind him, and Rodney had a 
chance to draw near. 

“ Oh, is that you, Mr. Heriot? ” said he. “ Good- 
evening ! ” 

“Shall we have a pull together, starting fair?” 

“ With all my heart.” 

“ Well, give me room.” 

“ Keep three boat-lengths off,” said Medhurst. 

“ All right.” 

Rodney’s first stroke was a strong one, and sent 
his boat half a length ahead of Medhurst’s, and for 
five hundred yards it seemed as if he were likely to 
keep the vantage so easily gained. He was a little 
surprised at his own powers, and became the dupe 
of more self-belief than the occasion warranted. He 
always found it a happy moment when he was actu- 
ally doing anything. Medhurst, on his side, had 
waited to see what the other was equal to. The 
challenge had almost amused him, for Rodney inva- 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL . 


87 


riably went through his small social duties with 
such an indifferent and leisurely air that Medhurst 
had given him credit for little more nerve or muscle 
than he showed. But he now found that his com- 
petitor was master of a very sure stroke, and knew 
how to make his force tell. Rodney Heriot had 
done a little sculling in good company, just as he 
had done everything else. Medhurst had, however, 
no intention of letting himself be beaten. After a 
while he began to put forth more energy ; at first 
steady and concentrated, then more and more im- 
petuous. Rodney was left behind. 

“Hello, hold up!” he called out. “You must 
have the devil behind } r ou. I’m badly licked.” 

Medhurst laughed. 

“ You pull a better oar than I do,” said he ; “ the 
thing is, you are not in training.” * 

“ When one can’t win it is a neat thing to say 
one is out of practice.” 

“Shall we have another?” 

“No, that will do. It is definitely settled that 
you have beaten me, and I will rest there. It is 
well to know where we stand.” 

“ So be it. I don’t often have an hour of triumph. 
Let me make the most of it.” 

“ You owe me my revenge.” 

“ Certainly, when and how you will.” 

“ Let it be now. Come back to my mother’s 
house, and take tea with us. Honestly, I want to 
get acquainted with you.” 

“ I am very much obliged to you.” 

“ No, you’re not. You’re a proud fellow. You 
have held off from me.” 


88 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Their boats were close alongside. They were 
looking frankly each into the other’s eyes. 

“ Come back with me,” urged Rodney. 

“ Let me suggest something,” said Medhurst. 
“ There is a little beer-garden a mile further on. 
Go there with me, and we can have a talk.” 

“ But why not ” — 

“You will find me better company,” persisted 
Medhurst, with a frank smile. “ Your house would 
strike me dumb. I have heard of its magnificence.” 

“Very well; I will go with you to the beer-gar- 
den. As for the house, it is not my house. My 
step-father wanted to see how much money he could 
put into it. I hated the man and despised him ; but 
he knew what to buy, — I concede so much. Some 
day it would be worth your while to go through the 
rooms.” 

“Thanks.” • 

“ If I had come near the place two years ago I 
should have run the risk of being ordered off the 
premises. I owe my present lease of comfortable 
existence to the fact that my step-father is dead. I 
often feel as if his ghost would stride in and croak, 
4 Come, you miserable beggar, get out of this ! ’ 
Do you know what it is to be poor ? ’ ’ 

“ If I knew anything else do you suppose I should 
be Mr. Haxtoun’s amanuensis? ” 

“You are better off than I am. I had some 
money once, but I had spent it all before I was 
thirty. If I told you how I had lived since you 
might be in danger of despising me.” 

Medhurst laughed. Rodney Ileriot’s eagerness 
to talk to him puzzled him, without much interesting 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL . 


89 


him. But this tone made it clear that he wanted to 
break down the notion of any social barriers being 
interposed between their entire confidence. 

“I don’t think you have any clear idea of what 
poverty is,” said he. “ You could hardly have, — 
the only son of a rich mother.” 

u Poverty is not the worst evil in the world.” 

“ I grant you that,” said Medhurst, with some 
heat. “ I don’t envy you. I never wanted to be a 
rich man but one year in my life.” 

“ When was that? ” 

“ Six years ago, when I was twenty -two.” 

“You wanted money then for some woman, I 
suppose.” 

“ Exactly ; I should be afraid of it for myself.” 

“ Should you ? ’’asked Rodney. “ I wonder, now, 
why you would be afraid of it.” 

“ Why, you see all the fruit I long for is Hespe- 
ridean, golden, because I cannot get at it. Leisure, 
marriage, culture, good wines, good dinners, travel, 
adventure, — the idea of them carries zest along 
with it. If I were rich I should, no doubt, find life 
as dull as rich men seem to do, and I might blow 
my brains out.” 

“ Leisure, marriage, culture, good wines, good 
dinners, travel, adventure,” repeated Rodney, telling 
the words off on his fingers. “ Leisure is a name 
for ennui; the pleasures of life are its cares and 
toils. Marriage has never been a habit of mine, but 
few men speak well of it. Culture I know little or 
nothing about ; good wines and good dinners bring 
the very devil to pay with a man’s constitution. 
As for travel, that would do very well if one had 


90 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


not to carry one’s self along. As for the adventures, 
who has any nowadays ? ” 

“You can’t be said to have tried everything so 
long as you are not married,” remarked Medhurst, 
with rather a meaning smile, as he thought of 
Heriot’s present opportunities. 

Rodney did not answer. They had dipped their 
oars from time to time and now had reached the 
little floating dock below the terraces of the beer- 
garden. They tied their boats to the same post, and 
walked up the bank together. The last rays of the 
setting sun struck straight across the landscape, and 
the sky above and the water beneath were both full 
of color. The two men sat down at a table under a 
tree, where half-a-dozen unlighted Chinese lanterns 
swung in the evening breeze, and ordered some 
supper. Rodney Heriot had a colloquy in German 
with the waiter, who spoke English perfectly, and 
asked him what he could promise them that was 
particularly good. 

“ The best thing they have here is very bad,” said 
Medhurst. 

“ I always like to find out anybody’s pet vanity ; 
discover a man’s foible, and then avoid it.” 

Medhurst registered an inward vow that Heriot 
should not too easily take his measure. 

“ Do j r ou come here often?” Rodney inquired. 

“ Once a week or so.” 

“You like at times to get out of the Haxtoun 
grooves ? ” 

“It makes a little variety. The band plays 
badly, but then the}^ bungle over very good music. 
The river is pretty.” 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL . 


91 


“ Yes, and the oleanders are fragrant.” 

“Accordingly I accept all such opportunities 
for solacement in a thankful spirit. I have 
plenty of silence, dulness, vacancy, after I get 
back to my work.” 

“ Vacancy,” repeated Rodney, with a slight grim- 
ace. 

“Yes, vacancy. For I hardly consider that it 
counts when Mrs. Haxtoun looks in at half -past 
two.” 

“ No fairer visitors?” asked Rodney, who had put 
his elbows on the table, and was supporting his chin 
with his two hands, and looking squarely into the 
other’s eyes. 

“None.” 

“ Come, come, man ! ” 

“ Really, I don’t know what you mean.” 

“ Did not Miss Haxtoun interrupt your work the 
other night ? ” 

Medhurst did not change a muscle of his face. 

“ No,” said he. 

“ Who went to tell you old Haxtoun wanted you 
to come in ? ” 

“ A servant.” 

“ You came in with Miss Haxtoun.” 

“Quite accidentally.” 

“You are discreet,” said Rodney, with a light 
laugh. “You are admirably discreet. I drink to 
your very good health, Medhurst, and your con- 
tinued discretion.” 

“ I don’t know what I have done to deserve your 
good opinion.” 

“You know how to hold your own when a woman 


92 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


is concerned. But, at least, confess that Miss 
Haxtoun is charming.” 

“Miss Haxtoun? She is certainly beautiful, — 
exquisitely fresh.” 

44 And very charming ? ” 

“ Certainly, — I should imagine she might be very 
charming.” 

“Ah, wise fellow! But, from your allusions, I 
have already gained the truth that six years ago you 
were charmed too much.” 

‘ 4 As you say, — six years ago I was charmed too 
much. I rounded off that experience for life, and 
have never been charmed since.” 

44 Forbidden fruit, eh?” 

“Hands off! Touch not, taste not, handle not, 
— those are the signs which lie along my way. I 
happened to hear you say to Mrs. Haxtoun the 
night I came that your prohibition was, 4 Not too 
much.’ One does not need to explain the difference.” 

44 1 suspect I am the more rational being of the 
two. You have a chance to use your imagination. 
There are spirited capabilities about your face 
which indicate what you are. I would give some- 
thing for your dreams.” 

44 My dreams ! You don’t know me, Mr. Heriot,” 
exclaimed Medhurst, impatiently. 44 Strong emo- 
tions have made small part of my life. You have 
lived for agitations, excitements, pleasures. You 
have been able to afford time and strength to go 
and seek them when they did not come of their own 
accord. As for me, I am a disappointed and a 
bitter man. I don’t mind my poverty. What I do 
mind is, that I am twenty-eight years old and that I 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL.' 


93 


have no career. My dreams are of my failures, my 
humiliations, my disgust at my forced labor ‘for 
what has nothing to do with my actual life. As for 
women, — I fancy your allusion was to them, — all 
the caresses of Titania -would win from me only a 
petition, like Bottom’s, for ‘a bottle of hay’ or ‘a 
handful of dried peas.’” 

Rodney listened with a half-joyous, half-mock- 
ing smile, and his large blue eyes fixed on Med- 
hurst’s face. He had begun by a suspicion that 
there might be some intimate acquaintance ripening 
between the young fellow and Cecil, and he now 
accepted as a certain fact the fantastic fancy that 
Medhurst was wildly in love with the young girl. 
A certain sombre heroism in his face as he alluded 
to himself, a harsh obstinacy in repelling the sug- 
gestion that he might be charmed, were certain signs 
to Rodney that there were strife and conflict in his 
heart over present troubles and vexations. The 
waiters were lighting the Chinese lanterns and the 
musicians had taken their places on the little 
platform, and were tuning their instruments. The 
evening grew more and more beautiful every 
moment. The after-glow still lighted the sky and 
the river, and its lustrous yellow had the perfect 
color of the full-blown primrose, while the loom- 
ing hills seemed to be wrapped in violet. 

“Do you like Mozart, or Beethoven, best?” in- 
quired Rodney, as if they had been talking about 
music. 

“ Beethoven ; and next to him, Schubert. Mozart 
I care little or nothing for.” 

“ That is because } 7 ou make such a serious thing 


94 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


of life. There is something very happy and joyous 
about Mozart, a dreamy blissfulness, a tender, brood- 
ing fancy. First, he gives us the hope of his happi- 
ness ; a quiver of expectation runs all through the 
strains ; he tastes all the sweetness of his coming 
experience, and his heart aches with the weight of 
the exquisite distress he longs for, yet dreads. 
Then his happiness comes, — full joy, voluptuous, 
supreme emotion, just like his dreams ; no silence 
about it, no reserve ; all told out with the abandon 
of absolute pleasure. And finally, when it de- 
parts — but no, it never departs ; he holds it, still 
musing on it, in memory recalling it with all its 
tenderness, its transports, its imperious, seductive 
charms. One has heard the story over and over till 
one’s ear grows ravished with it, but one can never 
hear it too often.” 

“You make me out a dull fellow; but Mozart’s 
strains, repeating each other like echoes, — inter- 
twining, caressing, following each other, — no matter 
how sweet they are, give me a feeling of satiety.” 

“ What better is there than sweet satiety? But I 
should suspect you were a man to be mad after 
Beethoven. No sweet, soft happiness in Beethoven ; 
no single unmixed emotion. You go on from one 
climax to another, out of joy to pain, out of heaven 
to hell ; then out of hell opens heaven again, — a 
new heaven born out of the chaos of despair.” 

“ You have thought a great deal about music? ” 

“ I never thought about anything in my life ; but 
for two years I studied music, and lived in a musical 
circle in Paris.” 

“ Do you play on any instrument?” 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL . 


95 


“On the piano, a little, but badly. On the 
violin a little more, but so unsatisfactorily that of 
late I hardly touch the bow. I had a frenzy at one 
time to get hold of the thoughts of the masters ; 
but I grew discouraged. The immortals will have 
nothing to do with me.” 

He spoke with his usual light superficiality. 
Medhurst stared at him, frankly puzzled. 

“It needs time, I suppose, to perfect one’s self,” 
he remarked, uttering a commonplace to stifle the 
exclamation of surprise he was ready to make. 

“No artistic pursuit can be an arbitrary thing. 
Your impulses must run current with it ; they must 
not only be a complete yielding up of time, strength, 
and careful labor, but of the thought and intellect 
as well, if art is to reward you by moulding your 
powers and giving them shape and meaning. I can 
do anything for a few months ; then all at once 
everything I have looked forward to and believed in 
seems crumbling to pieces. I seem to have lost my 
foothold, and have to look round for another.” 

“A man has to struggle on past that. If he 
stops short he does it at the risk of losing the im- 
petus, which he cannot get up again. In fact, he 
sacrifices not only what he is going to do, but what 
he has done.” 

“ Oh ! I dare say I got out of music all I could. 

I used to attend the concerts at the Conservatoire, 
and I had some fine moments. What finally cured 
me of my infatuation was an experience at a pri- 
vate concert. I was to play Schubert’s Sonata in 
A minor with a Hungarian pianist. I was par- 
t.icuiarly fond of my violin in those days. I used to 


96 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


lean my chest down upon it with much the same 
feeling as if it had been the ivory skin of a beautiful 
woman. Well, this evening I was just about to 
flourish my bow, when I looked up and saw, about ten 
feet in front of me, a pretty Parisienne, who regarded 
me closely, and struck, probably, by my sentimental 
air, smiled with internal amusement. I felt that I 
was making myself absurd, and I have an antipathy 
for the absurd. I declined to play.” 

“ Then your love of music was, in fact, a ca- 
price ? ” 

“ You see through me at once. There is a moral 
meaning in all these failures of mine. Everything 
is a caprice with me. When the elan is gone, the 
pleasure is gone.” 

Medhurst was struck by these confessions, 
which, nevertheless, he did not take very seriously. 
Rodney’s manner, easy, sportive, and impassioned 
at times, alternated with the freedom and spirit of 
one who is playing a clever part, and wants to 
succeed. 

“ I have wondered,” Rodney pursued, “ how it 
would be if I were to fall in love.” 

“ Naturally my miud reverted to the same sub- 
ject. I will hazard a conjecture : you have never 
been in love.” 

u What makes you think that?” 

“ That is no reason why plenty of women should 
not have been in love with you. I fancy you have 
studied the subject.” 

“ Are women ever in love? ” 

“They say so. But then man is the emotional 
animal.” 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL.' 


97 


“ You have been in love? ” 

“ I seem to have made some such confession to- 
night, I hardly know why. I assure you my experi- 
ence of the subject is necessarily limited, and what 
knowledge I possess is a mere gauge of the torments 
and the pains.” . 

u Why did you think I had not been in love? ” 

u You seem to me to have gained no permanent 
impressions from life, — as if you had desired nothing 
absolutely. You would have become surer of your- 
self if you had had a simple intense emotion, and 
either felt more constancy to your ideals, or more 
abhorrence of them.” 

“ I should, in fact, have preferred Beethoven to 
Mozart.” 

“ I fancy you do. But you would have had less 
antipathy to the absurd.” 

“ I see the force of that. In order to be a good 
lover a man must not hesitate to make himself 
ridiculous.” 

“ He must have a fixed idea. Love is a burning- 
glass, and concentrates every ray of feeling.” 

“ Ah, but a fixed idea is so difficult, and concern- 
ing a woman, of all creatures ! No two ideas about 
her succeed each other in logical order. You cannot 
say to yourself, she is a light- winged, frivolous creat- 
ure, therefore I must cull the flower of things, and 
offer only the honey to her. On the contrary, at a 
suggestion of this she at once seeks to prove to you 
that she is nothing if not profound; that nothing 
contents her save researches into the hidden mys- 
teries. Then, too, you respect her innocence and 
modesty, and avoid the least intimation that you are 


98 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


a masculine being, or live in a world of reality, and 
she will make allusions with the utmost scorn to 
what almost makes your hair stand on end. You 
fancy she values nothing but love. Nothing of the 
sort. She knows not what love is ; she wants to 
dazzle and astonish you ; she is utterly reckless in 
the way she runs after certain effects. But don’t 
be encouraged beyond bounds ; these surprising 
performances are not stimulated by any conscious- 
ness of you as an individual man, but are the work 
of a youthful spirit, which excitedly seeks to project 
itself into situations it has read or dreamed about, 
and which, guided by its untrained instincts, always 
produces too much and leaps too far.” 

Rodney seemed interested in his own words. He 
had been smoking a cigarette, which had gone out, 
and now went through the motions of relighting it, 
but was unconscious that he did not succeed, 
and proceeded to put it to his lips in his pauses, 
withdrawing it when he spoke. 

44 Young girls surprise me,” he now remarked. 
44 1 confess, if I wanted to please one, I should not 
know how to go to work.” 

Medhurst laughed. 

44 Give me some advice,” said Rodney, gayly. 44 1 
need it.” 

44 1 hardly think that.” 

44 1 swear I do.” 

44 1 don’t mind giving advice,” said Medhurst. 
44 In a case like this it is a matter of scientific pre- 
diction. Take the young girl by the hand, and show 
her your mother’s house. You have neither brother 
nor sister, I believe.” 


“ NOTHING , IF NOT CRITICAL .” 99 

u Not one.” 

“Tell her so. Say, ‘I am the only son of my 
mother, and she is a rich widow.’ ” 

“ You think young girls care for these material, 
sordid considerations ? ” 

“ I know they do.” 

“ I confess,” said Rodney, after a moment’s 
pause, “ that I am more romantic than you think. 
I should like to be ardently loved.” 

“ That matter is between your soul and hers.” 

“You can’t give me any recipe, — any love- 
philter.” 

“ I gave you the result of my experience.” 

There was a moment’s silence. 

“It is time I was on my way back,” Medhurst 
now remarked. “ Brilliant irregularities and eccen- 
tric hours do not coincide with my present duties.” 

“ Get into my boat and tow yours.” 

“ No, get into mine, and I will row you home.” 

This arrangement was carried out. Rodney sat 
in the stern, with the rope of his boat tied to the 
gunwale. Medhurst plied his oars, and his com- 
panion talked. All meagre civilities, all limiting 
worldly ideas and conventional tones, seemed to 
have vanished in the intercourse of the two. Only 
what was natural showed itself in Rodney. Some 
sensibility ; some taste for the beautiful, a little of 
the brutal ; a mixture of poetry and folly, besides 
sensuality, made themselves evident in the recollec- 
tions of nights abroad, which he poured forth. A 
scene in Germany, a song of Italy, an adventure in 
Paris, — he gave everything, omitting nothing. It 
was to Medhurst, after these weeks of silence, as if 


100 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


some stream, dammed to its brim, had suddenly burst 
forth. There were the waters from a mountain 
spring, mixed with fresh-flowering branches, — a 
mouldering bough or two, and some ooze and 
slime. 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


101 3 


CHAPTER VHI. 

A NIGHT IN JUNE. 

H IS evening with Rodney Heriot made a strong 
impression on Medhurst’s mind, and was pon- 
dered over for days afterwards from many points of 
view. Rodney was naturally interesting to him, from 
having lived in a totally different range of expe- 
riences and ideas. He had had everything he had 
asked for, and enjoyed a chance to be happy as 
the gods, with roguish pranks, faults, follies, and 
vices, which he had had no need to conceal or 
calculate the results of. Medhurst had frequently 
thought of a career like . this ; but had never before 
happened to meet a man with th'e wit to have made 
the most of it. The impression of Rodney 

Heriot’s words and laughter, his quips, jests, 
and intimate confessions, remained in Medhurst’s 
mind, played over by interwoven and crossing 
lights, giving them different colors and shapes. 
He felt that he could not similarly have impressed 
Rodney Heriot. He was in no respect the equal of 
a man of the world, thirty-six years old, who had 
had a hat full of money with which to carry out 
every whim and caprice. And, unless one is either 
a saint or a man of the world, one cannot talk to 
a man of the world without seeming a pedant or a 


-,102 A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 

fool. But, though he was ready to call himself 
names, the fact remained that Bodney had thought 
him worth talking to. He had, besides, suspected 
him of some particular interest in Miss Haxtoun, 
and this, probably, accounted for all. If any one 
else had believed him capable of any presumptuous 
ideas concerning the young girl, Medhurst would 
have regarded it much like an accusation of picking 
his employer’s pocket. But it is natural for a lover 
to be jealous, and particularly of any one under the 
same roof as his beloved. Heriot little knew the 
scant opportunities he had of enjoying the young 
girl’s society, Medhurst said to himself : he had 
hardly the crumbs which fell from the rich man’s 
table. He had shuffled and equivocated a little about 
his interview with Cecil in the book-room, concern- 
ing which Rodney had pressed inquiries, when it 
might, perhaps, have been as well to tell the whole 
story. But he disliked to part with it. Of course it 
was a mere jumble of coincidences ; but the memory 
of it had a charm of its own. The young girl, 
standing there in the dim light, in her white gown, 
against the dark background, — a little timid and 
hesitating, yet full of sweetness and bonte , telling 
him that she thought of him ; that, instead of his 
being in her eyes, as he had supposed, a mere writ- 
ing-machine, wound up by meat and drink, he was 
an actual entity, thought of, listened to, and kindly 
regarded ! It was rather a pretty experience, the 
real charm of it being the surprise, the sudden 
novelty. It had made him build no castles in the 
air. It was probable that she had, as Rodney 
Heriot had described, tried to dazzle and astonish 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


103 


him ; she had, nevertheless, been terribly frightened, 
and checked herself at his slight reproof. He did 
not think that Rodney Heriot had ever seen her at 
such an advantage. It was evident that there was 
within her the tremulous sensitiveness of a bird, 
with a bird’s delicacy and vivacity. Medhurst 
wondered a little how happy Cecil was likely to be 
as Heriot’s wife ; he was inclined to believe that no 
woman took more than a materialistic view of 
marriage, and wealth would probably satisfy her. 
Yet Cecil was a young girl ; and a young girl 
demands incense, homage, intense sensation, and 
a whirlwind of occupations ; whereas, at Rodney 
Heriot’s age, and with his antecedents, the freshness 
had flatly gone out of most experiences and antici- 
pations. Yet Rodney expected her to fall in love 
with him. 

One evening, just at the end of June, Medhurst, 
on issuing from his study, came upon Cecil, standing 
in the porch, with a look of unmistakable timidity 
and indecision on her pretty face. She moved 
aside to let him pass, merely giving a haughty 
little word in answer to his low bow ; but he saw 
that she blushed vividly, and his own face tingled 
as he went down the terraces. He hated this form 
of meaningless embarrassment, and experienced that 
sense of his own youthfulness and greenness which 
afflicts any one when he longs for the vantage-ground 
of a man of the world, but is compelled to repeat 
the crudities of early youth. He went into the 
boat-house, let down his boat, and threw the oars 
into it, and was about to jump in himself, when he 
heard a voice outside, calling, “ Mr. Medhurst ! ” 


104 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


He turned. It was Cecil. 

44 Are you going on the river?” she asked. 

“ Yes.” 

“Oh, what a lovely time to go ! ” 

“Yes.” He looked at her, it was evident that 
she waited for an invitation from him ; but he 
uttered no word. 

‘ 4 May I go with you ?” she asked, with the audacity 
of a child spurred on by fright and nervousness. 

44 1 should be most happy to row you,” Medhurst 
replied, with deliberation. 44 Would Mrs. Haxtoun 
like it?” 

44 Why should she not like it? She never told 
me I was not to go rowing with you,” Cecil replied, 
with a sort of indignation. 

Medhurst knew very well that Mrs. Haxtoun was 
spending the day and night at her sister’s, — fifty 
miles away. 

44 Mr. Haxtoun is in the summer-house ; ask 
him,” said he, with decision. 

Cecil flew up the walk, and Medhurst went on in 
a methodical way getting the boat ready, working 
with a sort of fury. He hated himself, and his 
bonds and his limitations. He thought how Rodney 
Heriot would have replied if the young girl had 
begged to go with him, her eyes raised timidly, her 
whole face showing that bewitching softness. A 
man like that need not have given gruff, grim 
answers. There was something of the young Loch- 
invar about Medhurst, or so he believed, and he in 
no wise enjoyed assuming the airs of a dull peda- 
gogue where a woman was concerned. “If she 
comes,” he said to himself, 44 1 must put a cushion 


A NIGHT IN JUNE . 


105 


in the stern, and a rug on the floor.” He waited, 
however, to see the necessity for this preparation 
before he made it. It was only for the flower of 
chivalry to be reckless in costly offerings to reign- 
ing queens. He took his boat around to the pier 
steps, and then he waited, looking across the river 
at a passing boat. 

“Here I am,” cried Cecil. 

“Can you go?” he said, turning slowly to look 
at her, although he had heard her footsteps. 

“Papa had no objection. He said I must bring 
a wrap, and there it is.” She flung it down. 

“ Will you not hurt that pretty gown?” 

“ Oh, no matter ! I always soil my gowns. Do 
let me have a good time for once.” Her tone was 
half-pettish, half-imploring. 

He betrayed neither elation nor haste, but went 
soberly about the task of making the skiff comfort- 
able for her. She stood on the top step, holding the 
train of her dress in her hand, which, thus raised, 
disclosed a circle of frills and laces, from which 
issued two pretty feet in black silk stockings, and 
high-heeled slippers with huge buckles. That any- 
thing so fine, so dainty, should be injured by con- 
tact with aught unclean seemed to him unspeakable 
desecration. Still, all the time he was saying to 
himself that these exquisite, aristocratic creatures, 
with their dainty ways, were to be avoided as com- 
panions. 

“ Don’t take so much trouble,” cried Cecil, with 
an air of concern ; “I should like to get wet.” 

“ The boat is dry enough,” said Medhurst. He 
held out his hand, and hers slipped into it. 


106 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Shall I step on the edge? ” she asked, hesitating 
a little. 

“ No ; spring directly into the centre of the boat.” 

She obeyed him. 

“ Was that right?” she asked. 

He bit his lip. He mistrusted her air of submis- 
sion. He would have preferred her to show caprice, 
carelessness, or disdain. 

He guided her to her seat, arranged the rudder- 
rope, and gave her precise orders. He took off his 
coat in a leisurely way, folded it up, and sat down on 
it ; but the moment he took the oars he began to row 
with something like frenzy. He did not once let 
his eyes rest on the figure in the stern, but constantly 
turned, and looked over his shoulder. 

“ Why do you keep watch?” she asked. 

‘‘There are steamboats, and all sorts of river- 
craft.” 

‘ ‘ I will tell you if we are in danger of running 
into anything.” 

“ I prefer to look out for danger, if you please.” 

“ Does it bore you, having me here?” 

“Bore me? No.” 

“ For a week,” said Cecil, with a sigh, “ I have 
thought every day, ‘ If only I could go rowing with 
Mr. Medhurst ! ’ ” 

“ Are you so fond of being on the water? ” 

“ Not always. I wanted to come with you.” 

She spoke with the solemnity of a child, and sat 
with a candid, serious look on her young face. She 
seemed to be listening to the tinkling of the water 
against the side of the boat, and to the measured 
beat of the oars. 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


107 


“ Don’t you ever get tired of rowing? ” she asked. 

“Iam generally glad to drift back. I often lie 
flat on the bottom of the boat.” 

“ Looking up at the sky?” 

“Very likely; or shutting my eyes and looking 
nowhere.” 

“ I should like to do that.” 

“ Lie on the bottom of the boat?” 

“ I should like a chance to do things in an easy, 
careless way. I should like to have plenty of time 
to think, and one could think a great deal out on the 
river all alone.” 

“I wonder what you would think about,” said 
Medhurst. 

“Oh, so many things ! There are a great many 
things I don’t understand,” answered Cecil, turning 
a large, troubled gaze upon Medhurst, and speaking 
with the utmost emphasis. 

“It does sometimes seem a little difficult to get 
at the actual core of meaning ; but then, thinking 
is so hard.” 

“Do you think so?” exclaimed Cecil, wonder- 
ingly. “It seems to me so easy.” 

“ Do you think about people, about life, or about 
fairyland?” 

‘ 4 About them all. But perhaps you would say I 
do not think about real life, — mamma says so. It 
seems to me easier and pleasanter to imagine people 
as I like them and need them. I want them nobler, 
more beautiful, more interesting, than they are in 
every-day life. Why should not my lovely dreams 
come to pass ? ” she cried out, with a sudden burst of 
feeling. “They have happened ; they can happen 


108 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


again. Why should I miss all that is sweetest in 
life?” 

Medhurst, not knowing what to answer, kept 
silence. He heard a certain passionate emotion in 
the words, but the words themselves were incompre- 
hensible to him. What had a girl like her, brought 
up at her mother’s side, a chance to dream of, com- 
prehend, and despair at the thought of having lost? 

“ I suppose you think I am talking nonsense,” 
she now remarked, looking at him, and half-pouting, 
half-smiling. 

“ I am willing to wager all I do not possess that 
the prettiest and wildest dreams of your heart will 
come to pass.” 

She looked at him sidewise, then turned her 
glance upwards. She was blushing slightly. Med- 
hurst had not once slackened speed since they set out, 
and they were by this time far up the river. He now 
rested a little, only dipping his oars occasionally, 
and, no longer engrossed with his strenuous occupa- 
tion, became conscious of his position, far away from 
the eyes and ears of other human beings, alone with 
this young girl in the last and loneliest hour of the day. 

“ How quiet it is ! ” she exclaimed, after a little 
time. “ But yet it is not lonely.” 

“ No, — not lonely.” 

“ The river is so much company ; it has so much 
activity of its own, so many voices, so many mur- 
murs, one may hear just what one listens for in its 
soft sounds.” 

She seemed tobe listening, and he wondered to what. 

“ Have you ever been on the Rhine?” she asked, 
suddenly. 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


109 


“Yes, many times.” 

“ What strange, beautiful stories they have mingled 
with the every-day look of things there ! Last winter 
papa used to make me translate and write out those 
legends for him, and they quite took possession of 
my mind for a time. Now, suppose a nixie sat on 
that rock across the river, combing her golden hair 
and singing a song to you.” 

4 4 At present, at least, I should be quite indifferent 
to her song and to her golden hair.” 

4 4 Don’t j^ou like German stories ? ” 

44 1 get a good deal of them, you know. German 
literature is a great treasure-house of romantic ideas, 
and one gains a pell-mell of fantastic images, but 
few pleasing pictures, or complete and serene crea- 
tions. The Greeks are so much truer to art and 
nature ; their art is nature, and nature is always 
simple, no matter how beautiful or how infinitely 
various. Whether my intellect is too sceptical, or 
my imagination too sluggish, I am not sure ; but 
those Gothic monsters, virgins, nixies, knights, 
minnesingers, and all those colossal but shadowy 
forms, are unsubstantial to me.” 

4 4 But those stories symbolize the same meanings 
that the Greek stories did, — you believe that,” cried 
Cecil, startled. 

44 That is what we are writing about,” said Med- 
hurst, 44 and we are getting on very well. We have 
almost two hundred pages of foolscap already fin- 
ished on the subject. Having already done so much, 
it would be strange, indeed, if I did not believe in 
the identity of the Aryan epics.” 


110 


A MID BUMMER MADNESS. 


Medhurst felt impatient, and had taken up his oars 
again. The sun was just setting, and above them, 
in the exquisite azure, floated a few rose-colored 
clouds, which were reflected in the water. 

“ Look, how beautiful ! ” said Cecil. 

“ Yes.” 

“I am enjoying this so much,” she went on. 
“ Does it not make you feel happy? ” 

He shook his head. 

“ Don’t you feel the charm and the sweetness of 
it ? It is so hard to define a feeling ; but one is 
usually so bounded, so pent-up, that to be out 
under the skies, with nothing but nature, wide- 
spreading, beneficent, — it is as if — as if — if only 
one’s arms were long enough one might clasp the 
whole world. Don’t laugh at me,” she added, 
suddenly, growing scarlet, conscious of the gleam in 
his eyes. 

u I am not laughing at you, Miss Haxtoun.” 

He wondered about her more and more. This 
opportunity to see her freely had stimulated his 
curiosity instead of satisfying it. It might be that 
these delightful caprices had their root in a desire 
for admiration. Rodney Heriot would say as much. 
But what did it matter ? He was not compelled to 
solve the enigma. She seemed to him a complex 
creature ; full of fancy, full of paradox ; shy, be- 
witching, tender, and audacious ; changeable as the 
wind ; frank, yet mysteriously reserved ; candid, and 
rather vain ; and, besides, so radiantly beautiful that 
her mere look tinged all she said with a hundred 
varied lights of sentiment. 

She felt excessively embarrassed, and in any ex- 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


Ill 


cited mood it was her way to slip a ring she wore — 
a large sapphire, set in brilliants — up and down 
her finger. This little nervous motion did not con- 
tent her, and, taking it off, she held it over the gun- 
wale and dipped it in the running water. 

“Take care,” said Medhurst; “you know the 
story.” 

“ What story?” 

He began to repeat : — 

“ Wohl sitzt am Meeresstrande 
Ein zartes Jungfraulein ; 

Sie angelt manche Stunde, 

Kein Fischlein beisst ihr ein. 

“ Sie hat ’nen Ring am Finger 
Mit rothem Edelstein ; 

Den bind’t sie an die Angel, 

Wirft ihn ins Meer hinein. 

“ Da hebt sich aus der Tiefe 
*Ne Hand wie Elfenbein, 

Die lasst am Finger blinken 
Das goldne Ringelein.” 

Cecil drew back her hand sharply, startled, re- 
placed the ring on her finger, and held it there as if 
afraid. 

“ Tell me the rest,” she said, when he stopped. 

“ Don’t you know Uhland’s ballad?” 

“No.” 

“ Well, then, here is the rest of it : — 

“ Da hebt sich aus dem Grunde 
Ein Ritter, jung und fein ; 

Er prangt in goldnen Schuppen, 

Und spielt im Sonnenschein. 


112 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Das Magdlein spricht erschrocken, 

‘ Nein, edler Ritter, nein ! 

Lass du mein Ringlein golden! 

Gar nicht begehrt’ icli dein.’ 

“ ‘ Man an gelt nicht nach Fischen 
Mit Gold und Edelstein ; 

Das Ringlein lass ich nimmer ; 

Mein eigen mnsst du sein.’ ” 

\ She seemed vividly impressed by the little poem ; 
but she said nothing, only looked at Medhurst and 
waited. 

“ I did not mean to frighten you,” he now re- 
marked, rather mischievously; “and, after all, the 
Delaware is not the Rhine.” 

“No, luckily. I was thinking that the Rhine 
might be too delightful, too dangerous. Safety is 
something. When you are rowing at night you may 
be run down by a steam-tug ; but there are no nixies 
or loreleys lying in wait for you. And I might fish 
in the river all day with Mein Edelstein, and no 
knight, with an ivory hand, would rise out of the 
water to threaten me.” 

Her tone was quite different from what it had 
been before. 

“ That is the way she talks to Heriot,” Medhurst 
said to himself. The moment she was on her guard 
all her social training came to her aid, and she took 
the air of a clever woman of the world. 

“ Look up ! ” exclaimed Medhurst. The sun had 
been beneath the horizon for a quarter of an hour ; 
but the clouds, and sky, and atmosphere had con- 
tinued to grow more and more beautiful, gaining a 
singularly brilliant and luminous tone. Just above 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


113 


where the sun had gone down were wide, golden 
spaces, between the ripples of crimson and purple, 
and one great, violet cloud, fringed with a border of 
flame, seemed to throb with its intensity of color. 
The hue the distant hills took on was indescribable, 
and the air itself seemed to be a medium of liquid 
light, which changed everything it touched into 
beauty. 

“It is rather a romantic world,” observed Med- 
hurst. 4 4 Whether you are on the Rhine or on the 
Delaware you have the same heaven over your 
head ; and so long as there is beauty in the world 
there must be poetry and longing in young hearts, 
and so long as there is poetry there will be knights 
and loreleys.” 

She was still looking up at the sky, but was evi- 
dently thinking out her own thoughts, which engrossed 
her more than the slowly fading sunset splendors. 

“I fancy,” she remarked presently, “that you 
have lived through a great deal.” 

“I!” exclaimed Medhurst, frankly amazed, almost 
annoyed. 

“ Yes,” she returned, looking at him with a little, 
decisive nod. “I should not be surprised to hear 
of anything you had done.” 

4 4 On my soul ” — 

44 Oh, I mean great, heroic things,” said Cecil, 
with enthusiasm. 

4 4 4 Great, heroic things’?” he echoed sharply. 

4 4 What absolute nonsense ! What I have done have 
been poor things, unworthy things, pitiful things.” 

44 1 do not believe it,” she returned, so pointedly 
it seemed brusque. 


114 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Medhurst drew out his watch. 

“ Miss Haxtoun,” said he, “it is a quarter to 
eight. I suppose you are ready to go back.” 

“Oh, dear, I should like to go on forever.” 

“ I await your orders. Shall I turn or shall we go 
on forever ? ” 

“You must turn, I am afraid. Mr. Heriot is 
coming this evening, with a lady who is visiting his 
mother.” 

He swung the boat around. “We shall go down 
rapidly,” he remarked. “ The current is swift and 
strong.” 

“Don’t go too swiftly ; I want you to tell me 
about yourself.” 

“If you want an interesting autobiography I 
advise you to ask Mr. Heriot for his ; mine is a tame 
and shabby affair, — nothing but obstructed fortune, 
restrained activities, unfulfilled ambitions.” 

“I never should want to know Mr. Heriot’s,” 
said Cecil, with spirit. 

“ Nevertheless, his lifeis interesting to hear about.” 

“ But, no matter what he has done,” cried Cecil, 
impatiently, ‘ 4 1 want to know what you call ignoble 
and pitiful in your own career.” 

“You think I may have committed crimes.” 

“Oh, no.” 

“ You have heard me tell Mrs. Haxtoun the main 
facts.” 

Cecil looked at him with a meditative air. “ Your 
mother died at your birth,” said she. “You lost 
your father when you were nine years old. You were 
brought up by your uncle. I remember that it re- 
minded me of the ‘ Babes in the Wood.’ ” 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


115 


“ My uncle, on the contrary, was very good to me. 
Instead of coveting my six thousand dollars, he in- 
vested it well, and allowed it almost to double with- 
out being touched, bringing me up like his own 
child. He died when I was seventeen, and I was 
left to my own resources. I went to Harvard, and 
afterwards, for eighteen months, to Heidelberg. By 
the time I was twenty-one I had a fair classical edu- 
cation, and most of my money was spent. That 
seemed unimportant, however, for I expected to make 
my fortune at once.” 

“How?” 

“You have a practical mind. Now, my fault 
was my indefiniteness. I was crammed to the roof 
with literature, and was hazy-minded about the worth 
of other things. But I decided to study law, and 
had two thousand dollars left to tide me over those 
difficulties, when, all at once, the money was lost 
by the stoppage of a bank where it was temporarily 
deposited. I had to do something instantly to keep 
myself from starvation, and took the post of assist- 
ant teacher in a boys’ school. For two years I 
taught Greek, Latin, German, and some mathe- 
matics. Then I began to long for a chance to breathe, 
and I went into journalism. That suited me better 
for a time ; then, in turn, I came to loathe that.” 

“But you said you had done ignoble, pitiful 
things.” 

“ Look here, Miss Haxtoun. Once in his life a 
man feels an invincible strength, which seems to in- 
sure his getting from his career all that he craves. 
Intellect, heart, imagination, all combine to make 


116 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


him strong. What have I done with my youth and 
my force ? ” 

“You have done a great deal.” 

“I have not starved. All that makes success or 
defeat is, perhaps, the spirit of a life. Now, mine 
is all wrong. I am always at war with myself, my 
surroundings, my occupations.” 

“ Are you unhappy as papa’s secretary?” said 
Cecil, with a tremor in her voice. It seemed to him 
she shivered. 

“Are you cold?” he asked, throwing down his 
oars. “Where is that cloak you brought?” He 
caught it up. “May I put it around you?” he 
asked, in a very soft voice. 

She stood up. The boat rocked a little, and he 
flung his arms about her, steadying her while 
he drew the ribbons of the mantle and tied 
them at the throat. The night seemed to deepen in 
silence around them as they stood there. It op- 
pressed him strangely. 

“ Now sit down,” said he, with a feeling of haste 
upon him. “ I must row my best. It is late. So 
Mr. Heriot is coming over?” 

“ Yes, and a Mrs. Dalton.” 

“ Mrs. Dalton? ” repeated Medhurst. “ How old 
is she?” 

“Oh, she is young, — a beautiful woman, with 
auburn hair and dark eyes ! ” 

“ Do you happen to have heard her maiden 
name ? ” 

“ Fanny Blake. Mamma used to know her very 
well.” 

“ And Mrs. Dalton is staying at Mrs. Este’s? ” 


A NIGHT IN JUNE. 


117 


“ Yes. Do you know her? ” 

“ I know nobody nowadays. I once knew a 
Fanny Blake very well. She was the niece of my 
uncle’s wife, — not my cousin ; but she was fre- 
quently at the house.” 

“And did she have hair like dull-red gold, and 
dark eyes, and a peculiar smile, which torments one 
a little, and which one remembers, — is that your 
Fanny Blake ? ” 

“Yes, that is my Fanny Blake.” 

“You will come into the parlor to-night and see 
her ? ” 

“ Indeed, I shall not.” 

“ You must wish to meet her again.” 

“ Quite the contrary.” 

“ Were you not friends? ” 

“Friends? Oh, yes ! But everything connected 
with that time in my life I should prefer to forget.” 

Medhurst was putting all his strength into his row- 
ing, and said no more. Cecil looked at Venus shin- 
ing in the west, with a young moon beside her. She 
experienced a vague, chilly disappointment, a wist- 
ful and solemn regret. The lights shone from the 
open doors and windows of the houses along the 
shores ; but everything, even the familiar, dusky face 
of Rosendale, seemed remote and far off ; real life, 
which she had dropped two hours before, appeared 
legendary and dreamlike. 

“Here we are, Miss Ilaxtoun,” Medhurst said 
presently with some relief, “ and there is your 
father, waiting for you.” 

Mr. Ilaxtoun was quite nervous, and altogether 
irritable. 


118 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“I supposed it was only a half-hour’s row you 
asked about, my dear,” he said plaintively. “I 
have quite worn myself out going up and down the 
walk, and I know I have" taken cold. I sneezed 
three times in succession, and there is a peculiar 
ringing in my ears. There now, — I experienced a 
distinct chill, which is probably malaria. It was ex- 
cessively thoughtless in you, Cecil. It is almost 
nine o’clock, and there are guests in the parlor I was 
fairly ashamed to face. If your mamma were at 
home ” — 

All three of the guilty ones, of whom Mr. Hax- 
toun felt himself the chief, were very glad that Mrs. 
Haxtoun was fifty miles away. 


V 






MBS. HAXTOUN'S TROUBLES. 


119 


CHAPTER IX. 

MRS. HAXTOUN’S TROUBLES. 

B UT Mrs. Haxtoun came home the following day, 
and was not slow in gathering the news of 
all that had gone on in her absence. Miss Winches- 
ter enjoyed a grievance ; and certainly the awkward- 
ness of her position the night before was something 
which necessitated unstinted recital, with the fullest 
details. All day long she and Mr. Snow had been 
talking over the singular, the unprecedented, the 
almost painful conjunction of circumstances. 

“If I were Heriot, now,” Mr. Snow had begun 
more than once; but, pregnant with doom as his 
suggestion loomed up, no distinct statement had 
come to light. 

“ If I were your aunt,” he had said again, — and 
this came home to Miss Winchester’s imagination. 

“ I shall tell Aunt Jenny,” she said. “ I think it 
is my duty to do so.” 

4 4 Yes, indeed; it is your duty, and I hope she 
will ” — 

The pause indicated something heavy with dis- 
aster to the guilty ones. 

Lilly felt it unfair not to warn Cecil of her in- 
tention. 

44 1 shall have to let Aunt Jenny know all about 


120 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


your doings last night, Cissy dear,” she said, in a 
soft, cooing, purring voice, going up to her cousin 
and putting her arms around her. 

44 What doings?” 

44 Your row on the river with Mr. Medhurst.” 

44 Of course I should tell mamma about that my- 
self.” 

44 Should you, really? Aunt Jenny would not like 
it, you know.” 

44 What harm was there in it?” 

44 Aunt Jenny has always been a little afraid about 
Mr. Medhurst. * He is young, and very good- 
looking.” 

44 But why should she be afraid of him?” 

Lilly nodded, as much as to say, 44 It is all very 
well to make a brave stand, and seem unconscious.” 
Then she added aloud, 44 You know very well, 
Cissy dear, you would never have thought of going 
out alone to row with Mr. Medhurst, if Aunt Jenny 
had been here.” 

44 1 can see no harm in my going out with Mr. 
Medhurst,” Cecil said, in a dull, proud voice. 

Lilly nodded again. 44 1 see, — that ’ is your 
r61e,” she seemed to say. 

“Just think, Aunt Jenny,” she exclaimed, the 
moment she was alone with her aunt, 4 4 when Mr. 
Heriot and Mrs. Dalton came over last evening 
there was nobody except myself, and Arthur, of 
course, to receive them.” 

4 4 Where was Cecil ? ” 

44 Oh, she came in, in about half an hour, with Un- 
cle Leonard. But there was the magnificent Mrs. 
Dalton, faultlessly arrayed, sitting back on the sofa, 


MRS. HAXTOUN'S TROUBLES 


121 


looking so bored, and Mr. Heriot seeming altogether 
annoyed and put out. Arthur says he never can 
talk to Mr. Heriot, — it causes him mental prostra- 
tion, — and after a few ineffectual attempts he gave 
it up. Then, left to himself, Mr. Heriot went over 
to the piano and began to play softly. He played 
very nicely indeed, only he finished nothing ; after 
going about half through a nocturne or a movement 
of a sonata, he will all at once make a sort of impa- 
tient discord, and then begin something else.” 

“ But where was Alec? ” 

“ Alec came in late, and was eating his supper. I 
could not rouse him to any sense of his duties. After 
he saw Mrs. Dalton, however, he was quite sufficiently 
interested. Oh, what a coquette she is ! She even 
made eyes at Arthur ; but of course he gave no re- 
sponse to such overtures. For one thing I thank 
Heaven, — Arthur is not easily run away with by 
fleeting fancies.” 

“It all sounds very unreal and unlike anything 
I am used to,” said Mrs. Haxtoun. “Your uncle 
and Cecil out ; Alec churlishly attending to his own 
comfort, and everything left undone for the visitors, 
— Mrs. -id ton a stranger, too.” 

“ I don't think she minded ; it all diverted her. 
She did not say much to me ; but, when she did speak, 
she was sure to ask some question, cutting, incisive, 
which went right to the heart of things. She had 
seen Mr. Medhurst go up the river in the boat, and 
she was interested in finding out whether it was a 
Mr. Medhurst she had once known, — in fact, a sort 
of cousin of hers. He has the same name, but she 
could hardly make out that it was the one she meant. 


122 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


The chief reason was, that her Frank Medhurst was 
rather a brilliant, versatile fellow ; while ours is a 
sulky bear, with never a word to say to anybody, 
unless it may be to Cecil.” 

“I am sure, Lilly, he rarely addresses Cecil, or 
even looks at her.” 

“ What, — not all last evening? ” 

“ Did he come into the parlor?” 

“ No, I mean when he was with Cecil on the 
river.” 

“With Cecil on the river! What do you mean, 
Lilly?” 

“Why, Aunt Jenny, I was almost afraid to tell 
you that Cecil was out rowing with Mr. Medhurst 
from half-past six until almost nine o’clock.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun uttered an exclamation, and then 
checked herself. She was not slow to perceive that 
Lilly found some excitement in the situation, and 
she did not wish to commit herself to any disappro- 
bation of her daughter. It had always been Mrs. 
Haxtoun’s definite conviction that Cecil would never 
do anything foolish, for the reason that, while her 
taste and judgment were maturing, she would never 
be permitted the chance. Every indiscretion of a 
young girl was her mother’s fault: that was Mrs. 
Haxtoun’s creed ; but just now her faith in it was 
terribly shaken. Yet, after all, she told herself, try- 
ing to be just to Cecil, if Mr. Haxtoun had not first 
introduced Medhurst there would have been no oppor- 
tunity for this foolish, this mortifying, escapade. 
Then, not to blame Mr. Haxtoun too much, she said 
again mentally, if she herself, instead of weakly 
yielding to her husband’s wishes, had strongly as- 


MRS. HAXTOUN'S TROUBLES. 123 


serted herself, the young man might have been sent 
away. At the very sight of his spirited face, held in 
check by the excessive quiet in his manner, she had 
felt that he was a dangerous inmate, had heard “ a 
lion in the lobby roar.” But instead of putting bars 
and bolts in his way, she had confidingly helped to 
let him in. 

Oh, how to get him out again ! It had always 
seemed to Mrs. Haxtoun that she was very clever. 
She foresaw everything, and took in the whole mean- 
ing of a situation with the clearest insight. Her 
imagination was so active that she was able not only 
to predict what would happen, but to indicate what 
was likely to occur under an entirely different set of 
circumstances. She thus gave people the notion 
that she was wildly theoretical, and her views 
were treated as clever fallacies. When a thing came 
to pass she could not say with consistency, “You 
know I prophesied that from the first,” because 
she had also forecasted opposite results. She had 
said to herself that Medhurst might prove the very 
man Cecil was likely to fall in love with ; but she 
had also said that when a young girl’s fancies were 
in the air, as it were, one could not tell on which 
side of the hedge they would presently settle. She 
had at times argued that the sight of a clever fellow 
like Medhurst, who, at eight-and-twenty, could make 
no income beyond what he gained by a secretary- 
ship, would make evident the superior worth of 
a man like Heriot, who could offer a girl every- 
thing. Ah, well ! it is so difficult to be wise as a 
serpent and harmless as a dove ! — to teach a girl 
that she must be good, self-denying, religious, and 


124 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


pure ; that she must crave and seek beliefs and 
standards which will uphold her all her life, and be 
substantial helps on which she may rest “ with the 
everlasting arms ” beneath her ; and, at the same time, 
make clear to her the importance of sordid consid- 
erations. Mrs. Haxtoun knew very well that for most 
people to live successfully in this world they are 
compelled to serve two masters, to acknowledge a 
higher and a lower law ; but it is difficult to incul- 
cate such teachings except by example. Lilly Win- 
chester knew all about it almost instinctively. She 
was very bright, at the same time very proper and 
safe ; but then, as Mrs. Haxtoun knew very well, she 
was sly, and had been known how to get herself out 
of trouble by lying. 

It was difficult for Mrs. Haxtoun to sit quietly 
through dinner, and hear her husband talking to 
Medhurst about Firdusi, drowning his suggestions 
in a flood of contradiction, wearing out his patience 
by a slow deluge of interpretations, citations, and 
authorities. It was quite evident to her that the 
young man had neither heart nor interest in the mat- 
ter, and that his answers came neither from heart 
nor brain, only from his tongue. Mrs. Haxtoun, did 
not, however, waste pity upon him ; so far as he was 
concerned some mild form of excoriation seemed the 
most proper thing which could happen. But there 
opposite sat Cecil, for once, quiet, lifeless. As soon 
as the meal was over, Mrs. Haxtoun called her 
daughter to her own room, and made her sit down 
beside her. She pressed her hands over the bloom- 
ing cheeks, and kissed her twice, gazing at her atten- 
tively, but tenderly, and with a yearning heart. 


MRS. HAXTOUN'S TROUBLES. 125 

“ You don’t seem quite yourself, my dear,” said 
she. 

“ There is nothing the matter with me,” Cecil re- 
joined ; “ but I feel strangely quiet and dull to-day.” 

“ Perhaps you took cold on the river,” suggested 
Mrs. Haxtoun. 

Cecil blushed a vivid crimson, then looked at her 
mother a little defiantly. 

“ So Lilly told you ! ” she exclaimed. 

“You would have told me yourself, would you 
not?” 

“ But what was there to tell, mamma ? I can’t see 
that there was any harm in it.” 

“ Harm? Oh ! nobody would think of harm, act- 
ual harm. But it is hard to say anything in a sin- 
gle sentence. There is no harm, and yet there is 
harm. Now tell me how it was.” 

“It was just like this. Ever so many of these 
warm afternoons I have seen Mr. Medhurst go down 
to the boat-house and start for a row ; and yester- 
day I felt idle, and longed for something pleasant, 
and I ran after him, and asked if I might go with 
him.” 

“ You are so childish in some wa3 T s. What did he 
say?” 

“ He asked if you would like it.” 

“He was certain I should not. Really, he was 
very considerate. But it ended in your going.” 

“ He told me to ask papa.” 

“ And your papa consented, of course?” 

“Yes, he did not mind in the least; but, then, 
he did not suppose I should be gone so long.” 

“ How was that? ” 


126 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ We went on and on. He rowed very fast, and 
it was so pleasant, — you cannot think how pleasant 
it was. Finally he asked me whether he should 
turn, and I said I supposed we must go back, but 
that I should like to go on forever. ,, 

“ Do you mean you actually said this to Mr. 
Medhurst?” 

“ I did. I may have said more, but I cannot re- 
member now.” 

“And do you really think such remarks were in 
good taste? Now, just remember how shocked you 
were at Daisy Miller and her performances.” 

The color came and went in Cecil’s face. Her 
eyes grew larger. An indescribable surprise seemed 
to be taking possession of her. 

“But — but — that was with a stranger — and — 
and” — 

“ Is not Mr. Medhurst a stranger?” 

“ I — do — not — feel — that — he — is.” 

Cecil made this confession, dropping each word 
as if it burned her, while at the same time some 
emotion dyed her face. 

“But I do not know how you can have got so 
well acquainted with him. What did you talk 
about last night?” 

Cecil pondered a moment. 

“All sorts of things. I could hardly tell you 
half we talked about.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun’s imagination began to be active ; 
at this moment there was hardly anything she would 
have been surprised to hear. It seemed to her as 
if, instead of being absent from her daughter a day, 
she had been away for a year, — a year that might 


MRS. EAXTOUN'S TROUBLES. 127 


have changed forever the heart and the destiny 
of the young girl, giving her an imperishable ex- 
perience of what was bitter or what was sweet. 
She had thought she understood Cecil perfectly ; but 
where in her girlish life had been the preparation, 
the hidden processes, leading to the sudden develop- 
ment of a tendency like this ? 

“ And what do you suppose Mr. Medhurst thought 
of it all?” she asked. 

Cecil looked at her with some quickening wonder 
and apprehension. 

“ I don't know what you mean,” she said, hastily. 

“ But consider. Here is a young man filling, for 
a time, the position of your father’s secretary ; he 
is little thrown in your way, and, when he is, never 
presumes upon your interest in him. But now this 
is the second time you have clearly shown him that 
you have sought his society ; that you ” — 

Cecil uttered a cry and put her hands to her fore- 
head ; but her mother went on relentlessly : — 

“ If Mr. Medhurst did not flatter himself that you 
had a decided penchant for him, or that, at least, 
you wished to indulge in a little flirtation, he would 
be unlike any other man, — and I do not believe that 
he is dull.” 

Cecil had buried her face in her hands. Her 
breath came quickly, and she was trembling all 
over. 

“ You can have no idea how readily men yield to 
the idea that women are in love with them,” Mrs. 
Haxtoun went on, coolly. “ In commenting to each 
other upon the least sign of preference given by a 
girl, they suggest only one interpretation, and that 


128 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


is something to make any innocent girl almost die 
of shame.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun had now sent her arrow straight 
home, and was almost startled by the effect she had 
produced. Cecil began to sob violently ; her head 
was burning, her hands were cold as ice. It was 
impossible for her mother to conjecture just what 
was behind all this agitation ; its incredible violence 
seemed to mean more than humiliation. But the 
idea of her fault, sharply presented to her, had been 
startling to all her susceptibilities, and it had 
brought on a nervous attack. 

Cecil did not long give way to her sobbing ; all at 
once she looked up ; her shy, wet eyes were fastened 
upon her mother pleadingly and reproachfully. 

“Don’t say anything more,” she faltered, in a 
broken voice. “I — I assure you, you do not need.” 
She seemed alarmed and ashamed, and Mrs. Hax- 
toun was not in a mood to press the matter further. 
She had meant to say more, fancying some little re- 
sistance on Cecil’s part ; she had been ready to dis- 
cuss the social aspect of the situation humorously, 
ironically, sarcastically. But something in Cecil’s 
personality all at once emerged out of the shadow, 
stood erect, and half awed her. 

“ I confess,” she said, “ that I am glad to let it 
all pass, if it will ; but then you will learn, by-and- 
by, that things do not pass, — that is, without leav- 
ing consequences which develop in logical order. 
You must realize that Mr. Ileriot is paying you very 
particular attentions ; that naturally it must have 
made a deep impression upon him to find you were 
running about in a careless sort of way.” 


MRS. HAXTOUN'S TROUBLES. 129 


Cecil looked straight into her mother’s face. 

“ I don’t care about Mr. Heriot’s standards,” 
she said. 

“ I want you to care about them. It is the dear- 
est wish of my heart, just now, that you should be- 
come Mr. Heriot’s wife.” 

Cecil looked at her mother with a pale face. She 
had an expression as if the light dazzled her eyes, 
and blinded her. 

“ I am sure he loves you devotedly,” said Mrs. 
Ilaxtoun. 4 4 He only waits for some little sign of 
liking from you to come forward. I hope you will 
give it, and soon.” 

They gazed at each other intently. 

44 He can offer you everything,” Mrs. Ilaxtoun pur- 
sued. 

44 He has not got everything.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun asked no explanation of what Mr. 
Heriot’s limitations were. 

44 It would make me excessively happy to see you 
married to a man of his standing. I have felt so 
limited, so hindered, where you are concerned, — so 
afraid that, at such a disadvantage, compared with 
other girls who live in great cities, and go abroad 
constantly, you would be compelled to make some 
commonplace marriage. Really, I cannot help re- 
garding Mr. Heriot’s coming here as something 
providential.” 

Cecil drew in her breath with a sort of shudder. 

44 Did you like Mrs. Dalton? ” Mrs. Haxtoun now 
asked, willing to glide off to topics more general 
and of less meaning. 

44 No,” Cecil answered abruptly. 


130 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Why not? ” 

“ I do not know ; but I disliked her. She looked 
me over ; she smiled at me ; she seemed so consum- 
mately finished she made me feel crude.” 

“I don’t care about having you like her; but 
show her nothing of your dislike. Did they say any- 
thing about the Fourth-of-July fete? ” 

“ It was spoken of.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun had drawn her daughter upon her 
knees, and was caressing her tenderly. She began 
talking over the dress Cecil was to wear at the mati- 
nee, to which they were all invited, and settled that 
she was to have a new bonnet, which should make 
the gown now in the dress-maker’s hands a complete 
triumph. Mrs. Haxtoun had a practised touch in 
soothing and pleasing those whose tempers had been 
ruffled, and she was just congratulating herself that 
Cecil’s enigmatical emotion was quite spent, when, 
all at once, to her extreme astonishment, the girl 
gave a sob, sprang up suddenly, flew through the 
open door, and vanished. 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY fStE. 


131 


CHAPTER X. 

A FOURTH-OF-JULY FETE. 

M EDHURST had been bidden to the feast at 
Mrs. EsM’s for the Fourth of July, and had 
at first declined. On this Rodney Heriot had come to 
see him. 

“ You may have bought a piece of ground and five 
yoke of oxen ; you may have married a wife and be- 
come lame, halt, and blind, in consequence ; but, at 
any rate, you can come on a Fourth of July,” he in- 
sisted ; “ and Mrs. Dalton says you are a cousin of 
hers, and she wants to see you.” 

“Less than kin, and less than kind,” answered 
Medhurst. “ However, since you are so urgent I 
will make a point of going.” 

He told himself the thing was an irksome task. 
Mrs. Dalton was, no doubt, curious to see her old 
friend once more ; but the gratification of Mrs. Dal- 
ton’s curiosity was no part of his scheme of existence 
nowadays. However, since the ordeal was to be 
met, let it come, and be over. It had tormented his 
pride to remember that he had once boasted to Fanny 
Bl,gke that, in spite of his poverty and his insignifi- 
cance, if she would but trust herself to him her life 
should be one long sunshiny day ; that she should 
feel she had missed nothing ; that he would be a rich 


132 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


man in ten years. Recalling his old illusions, and 
his old belief in his own powers, his failure seemed 
something too humiliating to be borne. She would 
see at a glance his whole history, and probe him with 
questions which would compel him to confess his in- 
competence, his bad management, his false judgment 
in rejecting openings which might have led to suc- 
cess, and following up instead clues that had come 
to nothing. She was clear-eyed as a Fate, and had 
probably known it all from the beginning. He had 
no doubt of her magnificence and her success. He 
had seen her name in the arrivals and departures by 
European steamers. There was zest in her life, 
picturesqueness, pleasure. Well, he begrudged her 
nothing. She had had no passions except for the 
idle, the luxurious, the fictitious, the costly. 

He walked to the fete with Alec Haxtoun, about 
twelve o’clock, on the Fourth of July. Alec looked 
him over critically. “ Why, you are very well 
dressed ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Much obliged to you. I don’t know a better 
judge,” returned Medhurst. “I have had the 
clothes eighteen months. I don’t often wear them, 
because I like to feel that I have a coat somewhere 
which is not out at elbows.” 

“ You look very correct. You wear your clothes 
very well. Now, I had this suit made to wear to-day. 
What do you think of it?” 

“ Oh, it is neat ! ” 

“ Becoming?” 

“Everything becomes you, even the white gai- 
ters.” 

“ You don’t like the white gaiters?” 


A FOUllTU-OF-JULY FETE. 


133 


“ I like everything you wear.” 

“I was not sure about the white gaiters,” said 
Alec, in a tone of poignant regret, looking down at 
his faultless trousers. 44 But there is such a deadly 
quiet effect about this gray that I wanted a little in- 
dividuality to crop out somewhere. I wonder what 
Heriot will think of these gaiters.” 

4 4 Does he take an interest in clothes ? ” 

4 4 But look at* the man ! ” 

44 He has never impressed me as being well- 
dressed.” 

4 4 You don’t know the alphabet of the subject. 
He’s faultless. His clothes fit like the skin ; but he 
never wears the look of abject despair under their 
perfection that most fellows do. One wonders how 
he does it.” 

44 He does not look fashionable to me.” 

44 That is just it. He’s not fashionable. I am, and 
I know in my heart that it is abominably caddish to 
be fashionable ; but I can’t help it, — I’m always 
fashionable. What is the effect to-day ? ” 

Medhurst retreated three steps and gazed steadily 
at the young man, whose suit was pale gray, fault- 
lessly cut, everything excessively tight ; whose hat 
was bell-crowned, whose collar was a straight, wide 
band of linen, so stiff and so high that it threw his 
chin in air, and whose shoes were pointed at the 
toes. He carried a cane beneath his arm at an 
angle of forty-five degrees. His demeanor was 
sc^mn, — even his smile was painful ; the unhappy 
smile such smiles. 

44 On my word,” said Medhurst, 44 you are so per- 
fect I love to watch you. But how do you expect 
to sit down ? ” 


134 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


44 There will be no necessity for my sitting down. 
At these garden-parties, you know, one keeps walk- 
ing about and dancing.” 

44 Oh, I didn’t know ! ” said Medhurst. 44 1 hope 
I may sit down.” 

44 1 wish I knew how Heriot would take these 
gaiters,” said Alec. 

As Medhurst walked along the terrace towards the 
house he was impressed by the unexpected pretti- 
ness of the scene. The river was so beautifully 
blue ; the trees, which partly hid and partly afforded 
vistas of the water, were so well grouped, — all the 
distances were so picturesquely opened ; the Queen 
Anne house, with its timbers and bricks, its chim- 
neys and gables, made such a bright contrast of 
color beside the terraces, which were bordered by 
tubs of orange and lemon trees, laden with fruit, 
and alternating with huge aloes, — that he gazed 
about him with frank pleasure. 

“There is our carriage, and there is Cecil just 
alighting,” Alec remarked, and at once went for- 
ward to join his mother, sister, and cousin. 

Cecil at once became the riveting point of the 
picture for Medhurst. She was tripping along tow- 
ards the house after her mamma and papa, in a 
quaint, lovely poke bonnet, of white straw, trimmed 
with white plumes, and with a huge bow of white 
satin ribbon under the left ear. She wore, too, a 
sheeny white dress, with a lace fichu crossed and tied 
behind. Her pretty arms were bare below jjie 
elbow, except for some long lavender gloves, which 
rumpled loosely over the wrists, and in her hand she 
carried a bunch of white roses. She might have 


A FO URTH-OF-JUL Y FETE. 135 

been a bride in all this snowy white, Medhurst said 
to himself ; and with such a bride as that walking 
towards him, with a shy, bewitching smile, Heriot 
might be easily forgiven for going out of his senses. 
Medhurst himself had not spoken to Cecil since they 
were on the river together, now three nights ago. He 
had a fancy that the little excursion had excited some 
dissatisfaction. There had been silence and thought- 
fulness on Cecil’s part ; she did not once glance his 
way at table, and Mrs. Haxtoun had been unusually 
reserved. He was not surprised ; the only surprise 
he had felt was at being on the river with Cecil 
alone. He had been cool at the time, but he had not 
been cool since. The worst thing about the dull, 
monotonous life he led, he had told himself repeat- 
edly these three last days, was that his imagination, 
which would not be absorbed by his work, was free 
to give him all sorts of fantasies and dreams. 
Wherever he had been since that evening Cecil 
had seemed to be at his side, or at least not far 
away. The boat was filled with her presence, and 
this phantasmal image of her had gained more sub- 
stantiality than she had herself possessed when she 
was there ; for then he had been annoyed and tor- 
mented by doubts and fears. He recalled every- 
thing which she had said in a sort of ecstasy. He 
laughed over little phrases, — over her absurd con- 
fessions. His blood tingled with joy over this 
strange, sweet experience. But then, he had so 
little of interest to think of, it was not a thing to 
wonder at if he liked to free his mind of that in- 
tolerable burden of myths and legends, and experi- 
ence a moment’s excursion into romance on his own 
account. 


136 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


He stood at a little distance, and watched Rodney 
Ileriot receive his mother’s guests at the foot of the 
steps. He threw some spirit and grace into what- 
ever he undertook, which Medhurst felt was beyond 
that of most men. He was faultless in the practice 
of all the minor social duties, and a somewhat 
grand air, which he wore at times, took away 
every vestige of triviality from the performance of 
them. Rodney had seen Medhurst, and after he 
had led Cecil up to his mother, who sat just inside 
the rose-colored awnings, he came down the terrace 
to greet him. 

“ I’m glad you came,” said he, 

“ I am highly delighted with Fourth-of-July fetes. 
I should have said I did not like them.” 

“Begin by disliking things, and you have a 
chance of some agreeable disappointments in this 
world.” 

‘ ‘ I generally try to keep up my dislike consist- 
ently.” 

“I see you flatter yourself you are indifferent to 
pleasure. Now, mark my words, you like everything 
pleasant immensely.” 

“ I liked that night up the river.” 

“ Which night? ” 

Medhurst had the grace to blush. 

“ Yours and mine.” 

“You will be writing your ‘Nights,’ presently, 
like a second Musset. I suppose you will be deny- 
ing the little episode of three evenings ago.” 

Medhurst felt vaguely annoyed. It seemed to 
him bad taste in Rodney Heriot to push this allu- 
sion. It was the cruelty of the rich man to deny 


137 


A FOUBTH-OF-JULY FETE. 

his poorer neighbor the comfort of his one little ewe 
lamb. 

44 If ” — he began, — 44 if ” — 

“ Well, say on.” 

44 On second thoughts I will not.” 

“ You do not deny it, at least.” 

44 Deny it? — no.” 

“You glory in it?” Rodney was laughing, but 
his eye was serious. 

“ No, I regret it, since any one alludes to it in that 
tone.” 

44 On my word, Medhurst,” said Rodney, 44 I like 
you extremely ; I wish you liked me half as well.” 

“I like you well enough,” said Medhurst. “It 
would have been strange if I had not liked you after 
your talk of the other night.” 

4 4 1 tingled all next day at the thought of what I 
had said. Don’t ever remind me of my confessions. 
I don’t wish ever to hear of them again till the day 
of judgment.” 

He passed his arm under Medhurst’s. 

44 How well have you known Mrs. Dalton?” he 
asked. 

44 We grew up together. She spent all her vaca- 
tions in my uncle’s house.” 

44 Hm — hm — You must know her pretty well. 
My mother has made a good deal of her ; used to 
take her abroad every summer. We have met year 
after year, but I am always afraid of these fascinat- 
ing women.” 

44 Yes, — I understand that.” 

44 You can hold your own very well against , them. 
You have dignity, self-respect ; you are loyal to your 

/ 


138 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


best feelings ; you resolutely put down your 
worst” — 

“ Yes, yes ; that description fits me to a hair.” 

“ Come and speak to Mrs. Este first. She is 
anxious to see you. Don’t let her fasten herself to 
you, — she is a regular ‘ Ancient Mariner,’ ” said the 
dutiful son. They had walked up the steps and 
across the porch, and now entered the parlor, and 
found Mrs. Est6 sitting on a sofa. She wore a black 
gown, of delicate gauze, which sparkled with jet, and 
her pretty head, with its airy white curls, rose out 
of it in piquant contrast. 

“ You never thought it worth while to come before 
to see a dull old woman like me,” she exclaimed, 
with the mignonne air of her youth. 

Thus challenged, Medhurst was at a loss for a 
rejoinder. 

“Tell her you were afraid of her fascinations,” 
said Rodney. “ Self-preservation is the first law of 
nature, you know.” 

“Don’t put your own wicked speeches into the 
young man’s mouth,” said Mrs. Est6. “He has 
wit enough to answer for himself. I like his face. 
I shall do him no harm ; an old woman is no bad 
friend for a young man. She can tell him what to 
choose, what to avoid ; what to do, and what to 
leave undone. One has to be old to know these 
things.” 

“ She does not look old, does she?” said Rodney. 

“ She looks to me very charming,” Medhurst 
replied, making a second low bow to the old lady. 

“She has taken the elixir of youth,” proceeded 
Rodney. “ But, unluckily, she took too much of it, 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY FltTE. 


139 


not knowing exactly the prescription which would 
make her a fine woman of forty, and, quaffing a 
double allowance, she became the pretty, infantile 
creature you see her.” 

“He is never tired of teasing his old mother,” 
said Mrs. Est6. “He is rather bored with me.” 

“ Oh, no, I’m not ! ” said Rodney. “ Somehow it 
seems 4 homey ’ and comfortable to have a mother.” 

44 Make the most of me while I last,” said Mrs. 
Est6, with her little, impatient movement of the 
shoulders. 44 Go on and speak to Mrs. Dalton,” 
she added, smiling up at Medhurst with her pretty, 
faded, little smile. 44 1 fancy you are an old lover 
of hers. She is anxious to see you. All of us 
women have a tender heart for the men who loved 
us in our youth.” 

Rodney and Medhurst passed on. “Women of 
that age are always twenty years behind an idea,” 
said the son. 44 She always reminds me of the 
withered actress, who played the part of Zaire, and 
when she was praised said, modestly and deprecat- 
ingly, 4 But one ought to be young and beautiful to 
fill that r61e.’ — 4 Ah, madam,’ said the flatterer, 4 you 
have proved the contrary ! ’ ” 

44 1 admire a woman who retains her traditions of 
power in her old age,” said Medhurst. 

“I don’t,” returned the son, succinctly. 44 In 
fact, I think no pretty woman ought to live after 
she is forty.” 

44 Ugly women may continue in existence, I hope.” 

44 They ought never to be allowed to live at all. 
But here is Mrs. Dalton ! She possesses the clearest 
raison d'etre” 


140 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Mrs. Dalton was the centre of a group, but moved 
towards Rodney and Medhurst at once. 

4 ‘ Dear Cousin Frank ! ” she cried with some effu- 
sion ; and, standing on her tiptoes, as if she were 
petite and he immoderately tall, she lifted her cheek 
to be kissed. 

Medhurst had rarely been more annoyed in his 
life. He had for years experienced an inarticulate 
and smouldering resentment against Fanny, but had 
been conscious of at once loving while he hated, 
adoring while he despised, her. He would as soon 
have thought of going down on his knees and 
declaring his passion before all the world as of 
brushing her cheek with his lips while Heriot and 
all the guests looked on. But he did it, nevertheless, 
flushing violently all the while, and she drew back 
and lifted her eyes to his with a smile he knew. 

44 1 am so glad to see you, dear Cousin Frank,” 
she said, in a clear, vibratory tone. 

44 It is a long time since we met,” Medhurst re- 
marked, almost dryly. 

44 Tell me you are glad to see me again.” 

44 I am glad to see you again. You are looking 
well.” 

44 Am I? ” She sighed a little, and looked down at 
herself. 

44 I saw you last six years ago in April.” 

44 Do not insist on my remembering what is suffi- 
ciently in my thoughts already, — that I am six years 
older.” 

“You have lost nothing apparently, and have 
gained much.” 

4 4 What have I gained ? ” 


A FOURTH-OF-JTJLY FETE. 


141 


“More beauty, more accomplishments, — to say 
nothing of wealth, honors, magnificence ” — 

She slipped her arm under his. 

“Come into the next room,” she said, in a low 
voice. “ Those people are all listening. If you had 
stopped with beauty and accomplishments, or if you 
had added knowledge of the world ” — 

“ Six years ago I never thought you had anything 
to gain in the way of knowledge of the world.” 

“I knew nothing then, — absolutely nothing. 
Every idea I had in those days was a false one, — the 
outcome of foolish fancies gained from books or 
from commonplace people.” 

Medhurst looked down at her with close scrutiny. 
She had withdrawn her arm from his and walked 
along two paces from him. She was a very finished- 
looking woman, and displayed admirable nerve and 
poise in the way she carried herself and controlled the 
least movement of her dress. She wore white, of 
some airy texture, almost completely covered with 
lace, her slender figure and unusual height enabling her 
to carry off any amount of accessories with an effect 
of elegance. Her slim waist was bound with a 
violet ribbon, and the wide-brimmed straw hat she 
carried on her arm was trimmed with pansies. 

“As to my wealth,” she went on, “I suppose 
you know I am poorer than I was six years ago, 
when I had, at least, eight thousand dollars of my 
own.” 

“Poorer?” he echoed, startled out of some com- 
putation of the probable cost of the lace she 
wore. 

Mrs. Dalton had had her little confession to make, 


142 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


and had now acquitted herself of it bravely, she 
thought. 

“ Oh, I am horribly poor ! ” she said. “ I don’t 
see what remains to me except to go on the 
stage.” 

“ The very place for you. But does Mr. Dalton 
sanction that sort of ambition ? ” 

“What do you mean?” she asked, startled. 

“ He would hardly enjoy seeing you ” — 

She clutched his arm with vehemence. “How 
can you talk in that way ? ” said she, under her 
breath. “ Don’t you know ” — 

“ Good Heavens ! ” thought Medliurst. “ There 
has been a scandal, a divorce, or something.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said aloud. “ Beyond 
the fact of your marriage, six years ago in June, I 
am absolutely ignorant concerning you.” 

“Mr. Dalton died almost three years ago,” she 
murmured, dropping her eyes. “Don’t you see I 
still wear a sort of mourning ? ” 

“Oh, forgive me ! ” said Medhurst, eagerly. “ I 
was heartless.” He scanned her dress, and won- 
dered where the signs of woe could be to which she 
alluded. He had played the cynic in meeting Fanny 
again, and now experienced remorse. The logical 
gap between Fanny as an ambitious girl, breaking an 
engagement of five years’ standing to marry a rich 
man, and now as a married woman well placed in the 
world, he had filled up with a rich lover, a doting 
husband, all the pleasures and excitements of a 
brilliant social life. To find her a widow was a dif- 
ferent matter ; such an experience stimulated pity, 
sympathy, forgiveness ; gave her the dignity of one 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY F2TE. 


143 


who had gone through experiences, comprising what 
is most sacred and pathetic in life. 

“Have you children?” he asked, with strong 
curiosity. 

“Thank goodness, no!” she cried; then added, 
in a different voice, “ If you knew what makeshifts 
I am put to you would not wonder that I almost re- 
joice no fresh young life depends upon me. Now 
let us talk about yourself.” But there was no 
chance of a longer tete-a-tete just then. Mr. Hax- 
toun had walked about with Cecil for a time, then 
had put her in a corner, and set out for his private 
enjoyment. He had a great deal to say, and burned 
for a listener possessed of intelligence and modesty. 
He grudged the holiday both for himself and Med- 
hurst. Ten sheets of foolscap would not be spoiled 
to-day, and the loss concerned him intimately. 
Still, it was Fourth of July, and if a man were ever 
to unbend, throw off his armor, lie down in his 
tent, it was on a broiling day like this, with bursts 
of cannon reverberating at intervals from points up 
and down the river, while flags were flying, tor- 
pedoes exploding, and the general hubbub was so 
intolerable that it was difficult to sustain the close 
logical thoughts with which his brain usually 
teemed. But everything was auspicious for con- 
versation, and, seeing Rodney Heriot standing 
apparently unoccupied except in watching Mrs. 
Dalton and Medhurst, he bore down upon his host 
with the smile of the foeman who sees his prey and 
is ready to strike. 

“ This is quite a break in my routine,” he ob- 
served. “ Usually, at this hour of the day ” — 


144 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Rodney had seen himself marked as game. 

“I beg ten thousand pardons; but I am just 
about to seize this fortunate moment to take your 
daughter into the picture-gallery,” and he darted 
towards Cecil. 

Mr. Haxtoun was disappointed, and his eye trav- 
ersed the room. He had never succeeded in finding 
exactly his long-coveted opportunity to explain the 
full scope of his work to Rodney Heriot. He 
turned, and, as luck would have it, Medhurst and 
Mrs. Dalton were just at his elbow. 

“ I was just saying, Medhurst,” he observed, 
“ that at this hour of the day you and I were gen- 
erally shut up in the study.” 

“ Surely you are not regretting your dreary old 
work on a day like this, in a room full of lovely 
women,” said Mrs. Dalton, smiling up at the old 
gentleman. 

/*' Nothing equals the charm of a beautiful woman 
except the enthralment of a fixed idea*** said Mr. 
Haxtoun. “ If you knew the engrossing nature of 
our occupation, the delight of a slowly developing 
theory like a bud into the flower ” — 

Mrs. Dalton, to her dismay, saw Medhurst slip- 
ping into the crowd. She was left alone with the 
author. 

“ That sounds very delightful,” said she, her far- 
darting glances seeking some chance of relief. 

Mr. Haxtoun found himself a fortunate man. He 
liked any listener, but, above all, a woman young and 
beautiful, and who smiled into his eyes. 

“In the primitive mind,” he began, “unrestrained 
by the long literary and scientific traditions of which 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY fStE. 


145 


we wear the yoke, there was a capacity for burning 
enthusiasm, for spontaneous invention, for mould* 
ing into permanent shape the full form of the ele- 
mentary human idea ” 

“ I wish I had a primitive mind,” said Fanny. 

‘ I should like to burn with enthusiasm, and mould 
an elementary human idea into permanent shape.” 

If you would only study the Aryan epics ” 

. “^hat are they?” asked Fanny, with an irre- 
sistible smile, — “ anything nice and naughty? ” 

“ Um-um ! ” said the old gentleman to himself, half- 
liking and half-disliking this surprise. “ I think 
you would find some of them rather — rather, we 
will say, piquant. The primitive mind was not 
scared by improprieties ; the Aryan epics ” — 

“ 1 never heard anything so immoral. Was that 
what you meant when you said I had a primitive 
mind? — Dear Mrs. Este,” she called, as that lady 
tottered slowly by, “here is Mr. Haxtoun telling 
me I am not scared by improprieties ! ” 

“ I hope you are not scaring him, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Este, who thought that the old gentleman 
seemed to be encountering some surprise more or 
less tickling to his sense, of enjoyment. 

“ I think Mrs. Dalton has spirit enough to be in- 
troduced into an epic,” he rejoined. “ I was telling 
her about the great Aryan epics.” 

“I used to read Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost,’” said 
Mrs. Est6. “ Were you going to repeat it to Fanny? 
She wants a paradise regained, perhaps.” 

“ They might be included in the scheme. I have 
sometimes thought they ought to be included in the 
scheme,” returned Mr. Haxtoun, thoughtfully ; “ but 


146 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


by Milton’s day the warm, sensuous, glowing pagan- 
ism of the primitive mind ” — 

“ There ! He is talking about me again ! ” cried 
Fanny, and glided off, leaving Mrs. Este to stem 
the author’s eloquence. She wondered where Med- 
hurst had gone, and peered for a moment into 
the picture-gallery, where half-a-dozen people were 
sitting, and Rodney Heriot was standing in front 
of a Fortuny, talking to Cecil Haxtoun. Fanny did 
not care to go in, although she saw that Medhurst 
was there, in the alcove. She cared nothing for art 
herself, and always laughed when she heard people 
uttering commonplaces before pictures. She curled 
her lip at all landscapes, except those of Diaz. She 
liked figures when they were well done, and had an 
unerring instinct for a bit of clever painting in flesh 
or drapery. She wondered what Rodney was say- 
ing to Cecil, for whom she had quite an admiration 
to-day, although at first sight she had thought her 
merely a slight, juvenile creature. She always ad- 
mired a woman dressed in good taste, who drew men. 
It never occurred to her to compare herself with 
others of her sex. She knew her own powers, and 
how to use them, and wanted no more. She did 
not even begrudge Cecil the chance she enjoyed of 
winning Rodney Heriot. Those advantages belonged 
to the beautiful age of nineteen. Fanny had had her 
chance, she told herself, and very bad use she had 
made of it. She was now twenty-nine, and what 
she had to do was to gather up the fragments that 
were left. 

Rodney Heriot had found Cecil in an unusual 
mood to-day. He had never seen her look so deli- 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY FETE. 


147 


ciously pretty, and the air she wore was as fresh and 
unspoiled as her dress. She seemed timid before 
him; her color came and went. Instead of her 
usual frank, fearless gaze into his face her eyes 
perpetually drooped, and try as she would to raise the 
heavy lids and look at him, it was an impossible task. 

“ Do you like pictures?” Rodney had asked her, 
as he took her into the gallery. 

44 I like some very well,” she had replied. 

44 The late inestimable Este laid out enormous 
sums in pictures, and some of them are very well 
done, — regular rich men’s pictures, most of them.” 

44 What do you mean by rich men’s pictures?” 

“Vivid, distinct pictures of the world and the 
things that are in the world. What did Est6 care 
for thought in his canvases ? ” 

4 4 Is there no thought in these pictures ? ” 

“My words come from the jealous envy of an 
artist who tried and failed.” 

44 Do you mean that you are an artist?” 

“I tried and failed. I studied for eighteen 
months in a Parisian atelier .” 

“ What kind of pictures did you paint?” 

44 Very bad ones.” 

“ What kind of pictures xlM you try to paint? ” 

44 It is unkind to ask me. What do you like best, 
Miss Haxtoun ? Do you fancy this Diaz, — the Fon- 
tainebleau forest, with the great oak and the open 
glade in sunshine, the russet and green foliage, 
and the deep shadows, — or do you prefer this 
Neuville?” 

“ I do not like battle-pieces.” 

“ But I fancy you like some life put into a land- 


148 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


scape ; for instance, these excellent cattle, by 
Troy on.” 

Cecil said nothing, looked at the cattle, and then 
away. 

“ Here is an evening scene of Millet's, and another 
of Jules Breton’s ; which do you choose? ” 

“ I could not tell.” 

“But observe the difference. Millet’s gives a 
mere group of peasants gathering up their potatoes 
in bags, in a great, flat, open field, with a dull sky 
bending over it. Don’t you feel the silence, the 
loneliness, the grimness, bareness, hideousness of 
the lives of those men and women, with their un- 
couth forms and their hard faces ? There is hardly 
any vivid color, and the picture is certainly not dec- 
orative. You may exert what imagination you pos- 
sess to fill out those limitless horizons, where a few 
stunted shrubs are cut dully against the gray sky, but 
the figures themselves deny that life contains any 
of the enchantments of promise and hope, anything 
save toil and sleep, and a dull misery under both. 
Now look at Breton, and observe what a pretty, 
human idea he has, and how nobly he has treated it. 
The sunset is as fine as that you had when you went 
rowing up the river, the other night, and see how it 
is reflected on that young girl’s face, which kindles 
as at a kiss.” 

Cecil had flushed slightly, but, rallying, she said, 
looking at Rodney out of the corners of her dark 
eyes, that “ she thought he at least preferred the 
Millet.” 

“I never take the trouble to have preferences. 
Let each tell his own tale and in his own way. 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY FETE. 


149 


Here is a Munkacsy and there a Meissonnier, strong 
pieces of realism, and masterpieces of art. But 
how do you like this Corot ?” 

“ Tell me about it, Mr. Heriot,” said Cecil, softly. 

“ But what is there to tell? It is all there, — 
the still pool, with the reflections of the faintly 
flushed evening sky, and a glimpse of the sunset 
through the interlaced branches of the trees ; the 
grasses and sedge bending towards the water ; the 
deep shadows under the bank, the dead log half 
submerged ; the path leading out from the woods, 
and the boy driving home a few sheep, which huddle 
together in the dark. The idea of evening inter- 
penetrates every twig and branch and blade of 
grass. The nightingales will sing presently. All 
nature beckons on to the enjoyment of pure bliss 
and — lumbago.’ ’ 

Rodney could play any part for a little time, but, 
once at home in it, he experienced a desire to exag- 
gerate, even to caricature it. He could hardly re- 
strain himself now from talking the wildest nonsense 
to the young girl, who was listening to him as she 
had never listened before. It occurred to him it 
would be a clever joke to lead her up to a group of 
Bouguereau’s soft, shapely nymphs, bathing in a 
forest nook, and point out their beauties ; and to 
strangle this inclination and keep himself guarded 
and within bounds was as heroic a piece of self- 
denial as he had achieved for many a day. 

“Aren’t you tired of this eternal gloaming?” he 
asked. 44 Let us look at something else. Either 
one is bored and goes to sleep in the twilight, or one 
is haunted by the fancy of some happiness out of 


150 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


one’s reach. Moonlight, starlight, night voices, 
night perfumes, night winds, and night music fill 
one’s soul $vith frantic horror at times, mocking with 
a beauty which will not soothe. Night is like a 
woman.” 

44 Why is night like a woman?” 

4 4 It might rest us ; it might content us ; but it 
never does, — it only maddens us with dreams.” 

44 1 don’t understand you at all,” said Cecil, 
gazing at him inquisitively. 

44 Of course you don’t; why should you? You 
look as if you went to bed every night at nine 
o’clock and slept till dawn.” 

44 Since I have grown up I sit up late, quite 
late,” declared Cecil, indignantly. 

44 Did you ever,” pursued Rodney, 44 go into the 
garden early in the morning, and find freshly opened 
roses drenched with dew? Or great white lilies, 
with deep, golden hearts, just unfolding their petals 
in the stir of the morning breeze? Or have you 
stooped under a bough of sweetbrier, and seen the 
blossoms against a background of blue sky ? ” 

44 No,” replied Cecil, wonderingly. 

44 You are like the morning, not like night,” said 
Rodney, who had been looking at her with a heavy 
gaze, which oppressed her, but now turned it away. 
44 Come over here and see this Madrazo,” he went 
on. 44 It will take the taste of the Corot out of our 
mouths, so that we can go back and talk to every- 
day people. There is no sentiment here ; no sylvan 
sense ; no nature, — all is false, artificial ; poison- 
ous flowers, deceitful love, a wild, eager thirst for 
pleasure. Look at the pretty women, with their gay 


151 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY F$TE. 

dresses of satin, silk, and gauze. See that arch 
face above that fan ! Confess, now, that you find 
this brilliant civilization intelligible. Do you love 
to dance ? ” 

44 Dearly.” 

He looked at her. 4 4 1 don’t like to think of you 
in a ballroom like this, with these clever, trained 
women. It would delight me to see you dance ; yet 
it would shock me to the soul to see you love it as 
some women do.” 

“I have been to three balls, and have danced 
every time.” 

44 We must have a ball for you. You have looked 
at enough pictures, I am sure. There are too many 
of them. There ought never to be more than sis in 
one room. I hate collections ; don’t you ? ” 

44 1 never had a collection of anything, so I have 
always hated not to have collections.” 

4 4 Do you want all the things you have not had ? ” 

44 Every one ; I should hate to miss anything.” 

Rodney looked at her, his clever face full of mis- 
chief. 

44 One of these days somebody will offer you a key, 
and say, 4 Here, mademoiselle, is the key which will 
turn the wards and open the great treasure-house of 
the world to you.’ Then you will accept it with a 
little courtesy, and come immediately into the posses- 
sion of a new heaven and a new earth.” 

44 1 doubt very much whether I should be so sub- 
missive and grateful,” said Cecil. 44 1 have heard 
about Bluebeard’s chamber, and should prudently 
reply, 4 Thanks ; I very much prefer not to go rum- 
maging into places which do not belong to me.’ ” 


152 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Rodney burst out laughing. Her answer was 
immensely piquant to him. 

“ It seems to me a pity,” said he, “ that I have 
to give you up and go and offer my arm to an old 
woman, to take her out to luncheon.” 

“ To my mamma, perhaps.” 

“ No, indeed. I delight in your mamma ; if not 
the rose, she lives so near the rose she is worth 
picking. No, it is Mrs. Croome, — the one with the 
red nose and the crumpled gown. She is both a 
stranger and a magnate, I believe.” 

“She is my great-aunt.” 

“ I thought it likely you were connected with her, 
and that was the reason I unburdened myself ; and 
I give you leave to abuse any of my relations in 
return.” 

“ I might say something candid about Mrs. Este’s 
son.” 

“ Do. I would give half of what I don’t possess 
to know what you thought of me.” 

“ Then I shall not tell you.” 

“Oh, but do ! Did you ever think about me at 
all?” 

“ Yes ; I did, to-day.” 

“What did you think?” 

“ That it was as somebody told me.” 

“ What did somebody tell you?” 

“ That you had interesting things to tell.” 

“ Who said that? ” 

“ Mr. Medhurst.” 

The name jarred on Rodney. lie had fairly suc- 
ceeded in rousing Cecil out of her languid and list- 
. less mood. She had many a time turned towards 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY F&TE. 


153 


him with her indescribable smile. She was not so 
arch and mischievous as usual, and he preferred this 
more self-conscious mood. But this allusion to 
Medhurst spoiled it all. 

“ I would rather have you gain your impressions 
of me at first hand,” he said, in a low voice. “ If 
you are willing to know me I will lay my heart and 
soul bare before you.” 

Cecil grew pale and drew herself to her full 
height. Her young face took an intensely indignant 
look, and the glance she gave Rodney was far from 
tender. 

He did not hammer down his stroke. 

“ Medhurst has a chance of going back to his 
early love, now,” said he. “He and Mrs. Dalton 
were engaged for five years, and then she flung him 
over for a rich man, whom she married, and who left 
her poor.” 

Cecil listened intently. 

“Is that true?” she asked, with a peculiar 
glance. 

“ Oh, yes ! I have it from one of the principal 
parties in the affair. To be candid, she told me ; and 
Medhurst had already given me an inkling of his 
experience. I don’t think he has outlived it; and, 
anyway — 


“ ‘ On revient, on revient tou jours 
A ses premiers amours.’ ” 

Mrs. Haxtoun had been looking for Cecil with dis- 
creet zeal, and now approached the trio. Luncheon 
was just about to be announced, she said, with a 
smile, to Rodney, and he must not neglect his duties. 


154 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Rodney had no alternative, and hurried away to the 
old lady, whom he hoped to call his own great-aunt 
before many months. He had been growing more 
and more deeply in love with Cecil every hour. 
She was so beautiful to-day : he looked at her with 
a kind of despair, he longed for her so ; at the 
thought of repulse from her, he now began to ex- 
perience a sense of dread. He tore himself away 
from her with regret. 

Mrs. Croome had heard that Rodney was atten- 
tive to her grand-niece, and felt it her duty to put 
her possible grand-nephew through a catechism in 
morals and behavior, and by a judicious course of 
questionings, plied incessantly in the pauses between 
her plates of croquettes, salads, and boned turkey, 
restored. Rodney to his usual equipoise. He gave 
her his biography with a few incisive touches, which 
left little to be desired in the way of suggestiveness. 
He allowed her to understand that he had, in all 
places and at all times, taken the religion of the coun- 
try he was in for his own, with its habits and 
customs, — had lived chiefly in the East, and longed 
to return there. He found indescribable zest in the 
sight of the horror growing in her face, and was at 
no loss to understand the struggle going on in her 
mind between her revolt at his confessions and her 
assured belief that he was a desirable parti for 
Cecil. 

“ I’m afraid you’re something of a sinner,” she 
said, finally, holding her third glass of Bordeaux to 
her lips. “What you need is a wife to reform 
you.” 

“I’ve always heard the fair sex is never averse 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY Fi]TE. 


155 


to the task of reforming a sinner,” said he. 
“But how about the three wives I have got al- 
ready ? ” 

Meanwhile Mrs. Haxtoun and Cecil had sat down 
near Mrs. Est6, who was drinking bouillon and 
listening to Mr. Haxtoun, who was giving her a 
ghastly account of his troubles from dyspepsia. 
The old gentleman had been having a very good 
time indeed. Mrs. Est6, after a few little sallies, 
had proved quite submissive ; and, allowed for once 
in his life a fair start, he had enlightened her con- 
cerning the entire history of his great undertaking ; 
while she continued to gaze at him as if fascinated, 
his intricacies seeming to be her delight, and his 
mysteries her most pleasing study. From the com- 
manding pinnacle whence he looked down at her 
he had contemplated the little interruptions of 
people, coming and going and offering comments, 
without discomposure, and had held his course 
straight on until he took her out to luncheon. Here 
other thoughts suggested themselves, and he began 
to tell her of the impediments which hindered too 
easy a success. 

It must be confessed the old gentleman looked 
guilty when his wife approached. Mrs. Est6 greeted 
mother and daughter with rapture, and made a 
place for Cecil close beside her. 

“ What will you have, ma belle ?” she asked, 
summoning everybody within reach. “ You don’t 
want bouillon. You are of the age when anything can 
be eaten.” 

“ A most dangerous practice,” said Mr. Haxtoun, 
solemnly. “ Cecil, I advise you especially to avoid 


156 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


anything iced on a warm day like this, — it might 
give you a chill.” 

“ I particularly long for a chill, papa,” said Cecil ; 
“ I am so warm.” 

“ That is what it is to be young,” cried Mrs. Est6, 
with a little admiring shriek. “Violent contrasts, 
swift alternatives, dabbling first in one element and 
then in the other, — above all, a little suspicion of 
running risks and courting dangers. Youth delights 
in all these, and does not know how time is prepar- 
ing its revenges. At one time I used to live on 
birds and a salad mayonnaise. Now, my poor old 
organs will not take the trouble to digest anything 
except broth and milk.” 

“A cup of hot water, — just as hot as you can 
drink it, — sipped slowly,” put in Mr. Haxtoun, “ will 
obviate much ” — 

“ Mr. Haxtoun is always anxious to prescribe 
what has failed in his own case,” said his wife, feel- 
ing that her duty in this emergency was, at any cost, 
to stem the tide of her husband’s eloquence. “It 
was so good of your son, Mrs. Est6,” she proceeded, 
‘ ‘ to take the trouble to show Cecil the best pictures 
in the gallery.” 

“ Quite the labor he delights in, I fancy. And 
did you like the pictures, my dear?” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Cecil. 

“ Poor Mr. Est6 took such a pleasure in buying 
everything which might please me,” sighed the widow. 
“Nowadays I am as unimportant as a figure on a 
screen ; but my husband never thought me so. He 
would ransack Europe to find a novelty for me. 
If you want to be happy,” she added to Cecil, 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY FETE. 157 

“ have a husband who adores you, and who is so rich 
he can satisfy all your little whims.” 

Medhurst had been standing at a little distance, 
but now thought proper to approach the group, and 
make, at least, a bow to Mrs. Haxtoun and Cecil, 
whom he had not before met that day. He was 
struck by something unusual in the glance of the 
young girl. She raised her eyes, and looked at him 
steadily, as if wishing to read clearly whatever was 
evident in his face and manner. There was some- 
thing both serious and proud in her air ; something 
between indignation and reproach in her gaze. She 
looked superbly handsome ; but he had a sense of 
something menacing and portentous in her mood, as 
if she had been shaken to the bottom of her soul 
and longed to inflict pain on others. She bowed to 
Medhurst, and Mrs. Haxtoun addressed him with 
especial graciousness. 

“ So you and Mrs. Dalton are cousins ! ” she said, 
rather archly. 

“So it seems,” - replied Medhurst. “We called 
the same good man uncle years ago. That makes 
us cousins.” 

“ I congratulate you very much,” pursued Mrs. 
Haxtoun. “ It will be quite delightful to have an 
old friend in the neighborhood. It is very dull for 
you with us.” 

In fact, Mrs. Haxtoun felt lighter of heart than 
she had done for many a day. Mrs. Dalton had not 
only shown her interest in this excellent, but super- 
fluous, young man, but had also displayed some 
zeal in attracting him to her by palpable signs of 
the link between them. 


158 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“Avery handsome woman, that Mrs. Dalton,” 
said Mrs. Haxtoun, with the air of a connoisseur. 

“ Magnificent eyes,” said Mrs. Est6 ; “ it must be 
a sensation to look into them. I am an old woman, 
and no longer dangerous myself, but I love to see 
one of those thorough-bred young women. It is the 
jeune file like you, Cecil, who touches the heart ; but 
the woman of thirty conquers the head, and men 
have no hearts nowadays/ They like handsome 
toilettes, wit, and grace. It is easy to talk to a 
woman like Fanny, — no necessity for burrowing 
into the earth or soaring into the air for subjects. 
What she thinks about is the man before her, and 
what she intends him to think about is herself. 
Fanny is very easy to get on with.” 

Medhurst listened with an air of not understand- 
ing the subject. 

“I admire your wood-carvings very much, Mrs. 
Est6,” he now remarked, looking at the black oaken 
buffet. 

“The figures frightened me last winter, when I 
was here all alone, grinning and gnashing their teeth 
at me, — the monsters !” 

“ This dining-room is superb,” Medhurst remarked 
to Cecil. 

“Yes,” she answered distinctly; “the whole 
house is more beautiful than any I was ever in.” 

“ Todo estd a la disposition de V. M. At your 
disposal, my dear, as the Spaniards say,” exclaimed 
Mrs. EstA “It needs a charming young chatelaine .” 

“ It ought not to go begging for one,” said Med- 
hurst, who felt indescribably nettled, without choos- 
ing to define the reason of his irritation. He was 


A FOURTE-OF-JULY FETE. 


159 


smiling, nevertheless, and his glance rested on 
Cecil for a moment meaningly. 

She sprang up. “Dear Mrs. Este,” said she, 
“may I not show Mr. Medhurst about? I know 
the house so well, and I should like to point out its 
beauties to him.” 

“Certainly, my dear.” 

“But, Cecil,” put in Mrs. Haxtoun, “you are 
• taking it for granted that Mr. Medhurst is at 
leisure.” 

“Oh, do not fear, mamma!” said. Cecil, with a 
charming little movement. “ Mrs. Dalton is in the 
corner with Alec, and Mr. Medhurst is quite dis- 
engaged.” 

A little while before Cecil had been indolent and 
haughty, but now she was alive to her finger-tips. 
She moved on a little before Medhurst, who could 
compare the pride and grace of her movement only 
to that of a thorough-bred, who rears and paws the 
ground under the curb. She led the way across the 
hall to the parlors without saying a word, and he 
followed, perplexed, and almost pained. If this 
were society he wanted no more of it. It seemed 
to him as if, since he came to the house, every sensi- 
tive spot in his heart and mind had been pierced 
with little arrows, — pretty, feathered things, aimed 
surely and sent deep. He was in accord with 
nothing and no one. He was not flexible or mobile 
enough to get along with these people ; he had 
brooded over certain thoughts for years, and given 
them a sort of sacredness, which made it impossible 
to allude to them; his spiritual life was entirely 
individual. Then, intellectually, he had crammed 


160 A MIDSUMMER MADNESS . 


himself with ideas and facts which might be useful 
to him in his career, pigeon-holing them, as it were, 
in his mind, but they made no material for conver- 
sation. The stiff, machine-like movement of his 
mental processes gave no response to the easy 
dialogue which went on at every hand without 
effort or abruptness. His impulses of liking and 
disliking, his sympathies, his careless thoughts, 
which vibrated and undulated through his brain 
perpetually, he had taught himself to check, and 
never to give them expression. He felt at an utter 
disadvantage, and longed to be away. He had 
experienced a momentary wish to approach Cecil ; 
but he regretted it now. Whatever she had been 
the other night, to-day she was haughty and scorn- 
ful. Perhaps it was just as well ; it had needed 
this experience to make him entirely calm, and allow 
the vivid impression she had made upon his imagi- 
nation to fade entirely away. Mrs. Est6 had almost 
claimed her as her daughter in his presence, and the 
young girl had accepted the position with alacrity. 
She had wanted to show him with what a regal 
setting her } T oung beauty was to be enhanced. He 
felt stiff and proud, and looked so. 

The parlors were very light and airy in their 
effect. A dado of the palest gold, with a procession 
of figures from Greek vases, was set off by walls 
and ceiling of delicate azure. There were no 
heavy hangings ; the draperies were all of exquisite 
lace ; the rugs on the inlaid floors were, however, of 
the richest tints, and threw the paler hues into the 
most perfect relief. 

“The cabinets here are not only very beautiful, 


A FOUR TH- OF-JTJL Y F&TE. 


161 


but they are very rare and costly,” said Cecil. “ It 
is worth while to look at them.” 

“ The general effect is enough for me. I like the 
sparkle and splendor ; the room is fit for a queen.” 

“The little nooks are so perfectly finished. 
Come and sit down here a moment. Could any- 
thing be more perfect? Look at the vistas through 
those arches! Every beautiful effect has been 
studied. Mr. Est6 had a mind for details.” 

u And for the tout ensemble as well. Did you 
ever see the man ? ” 

“ Oh, frequently ! They came here regularly 
every April; then in June Mrs. Este went to 
Europe, but returned in September, and stayed here 
until towards Christmas. The house was frequently 
full of visitors, and they were very gay. It was 
before I went out.” 

“ Did you like Mr. Este?” 

“ He was only so high,” said Cecil, raising her 
little hand to a height of about four feet six 
inches from the floor. “ He looked like a monkey ; 
chattered and gesticulated like one. He was inces- 
santly in motion, and wanted something to be going 
on. He seemed entirely foreign both in looks and 
manner.” 

“ He and his step-son did not get on well.” 

“So I have heard. Mr. Heriot was always in 
Europe, and when Mrs. Este went abroad he used 
to join her at her villa near Lago Maggiore.” 

“ Mr. Este did not accompany her? ” 

“Never. He used to say he could not afford to 
be more than three hours’ distance from Wall 
street.” 


162 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“The whirligig of time brings strange revenges, 
since all this man’s wealth is now almost in his 
step-son’s grasp.” 

“ Mr. Heriot often alludes to that.” 

The two were sitting down face to face in deeply 
cushioned chairs, one of pale blue and the other of 
gold embossed satin. Medhurst had said to himself 
that she seemed to be doing the honors as if she 
had been three years married. He burned to say 
something which should show her how deep an 
impression her assumption of ownership made on 
him, and yet how insignificant he thought an ambi- 
tion which culminated merely in this. But he could 
think of nothing incisive enough which at the same 
time was not a little harsh. 

“ Mr. Heriot has seen a good deal,” he remarked. 
“ He has tried a good many occupations ; but he will 
settle down comfortably now, and a year hence will 
say that hitherto he has had no enjoyment.” 

“You like Mr. Heriot very much, do you not?’ 

“ I do ; I assure you I do.” His eyes met hers, 
and he smiled significantly. 

She sprang up, flushing. “We must go on to the 
library while the crowd is still in the dining-room,” 
she said. 

He followed her movement. “ I really do not 
know what the need of a library is in a house like 
this,” he exclaimed. 

“ Would you have no library? ” 

“ I say I cannot see the need of a library in a 
house like this. Books are for the poor, the lonely, 
and the unhappy.” 

She looked at him questioningly. 


A FOURTH-OF-JULY f£tE. 


163 

“How about pictures?” 

“ Oh, they are decorative. Walls are empty 
spaces unless filled in some way. But while you sat 
in that blue chair, against the tortoise-shell cabinet, 
covered with the blue china, I thought to myself, 

‘ This is tIie true work of art. What Boldini or 
Zamacois could paint this ? ’ ” 

• “ That is a very pretty compliment. If I lived in 
a home like this ” — 

“When you live in a home like this,” he inter- 
rupted. 

“ I would try to put out the most vivid pictures. 
After all, there is no movement, no change, in a 
painting. The artist may have chosen a happv 
moment ; but it is only a moment. One tires of it, 
and longs for a new impulse, a fresh suggestion.” 

“ No one will ever tire of you, Miss Iiaxtoun. 
Your art has no boundaries, no limitations. You 
live in a perfect whirlwind of devices and caprices.” 
She smiled at him defiantly. 

“This is the library,” she now announced; 
“according to you, a superfluous room in this 
house. I fancy Mr. Heriot does not think so yet.” 
“ No, — not quite yet.” * 

lie gave the four words all the meaning of which 
they were capable. 

“ He has his piano here, and his violin,” said 
Cecil. “ It seems Mrs. Dalton is a clever pianist, 
and she accompanies him. They practise the 
‘Kreutzer Sonata.’ I suppose you have heard 
Mrs. Dalton play.” 

“ Except for her playing I should have known 
little or nothing of music.” 


164 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Does she play well? ” 

“ I hardly remember. What I do remember is 
that she practised endlessly. She was ambitious to 
excel in music. Whatever she touches she is impa- 
tient to perfect herself in, or used to be ; and I 
thus became familiar with the music she studied, 
and any strain of it to this day comes charged with 
a meaning far greater than its own, and expressee 
what is absolutely individual to me, and unintelli- 
gible to others.” 

Cecil was looking at him ; she had grown a little 
pale and languid. 

“ Will you come on to Mrs. Est6’s boudoir , or 
have you seen enough?” she asked, with all the 
spirit flatly gone out of her face and her voice. 

“I have seen enough to be convinced that the 
house is very beautiful. It is rather a vain and 
bitter jest to go on showing such luxury to a poor 
man. How do you know tliat the sight of it does 
not inspire communistic rancor against Ileriot?” 

Even if Cecil had cared to answer she had no 
time, for Rodney Heriot and Mrs. Dalton were close 
beside them. 

“ Miss Ilaxtoun was kindly showing me the 
splendors of your house,” said Medhurst, addressing 
Rodney. 

“ My house? It is not my house at all,” Rodney 
replied. 

“ I wish it were mine,” said Mrs. Dalton. 

“ Not having it at my disposal I cannot offer it 
to you,” said Rodney. “ Otherwise ” — • He finished 
with a low bow. 

“Mr. Ileriot,” said Cecil, interrupting. 


A FOURTH-O F-JULY FETE . 


165 


He turned to her instantly. 

“ Will you take me to mamma?” she asked, with 
an absolutely infantile imperiousness ; and when he 
offered his arm she took it at once, and, without a 
glance at the others, walked away. 

“ That little girl is rude to me,” said Mrs. Dalton 
to Medhurst. “I wonder why? Is she always 
rude, or is it because she is annoyed? Does she 
fancy I am going to rob her of her rich lover ? ” 

Medhurst was looking after the two as they 
walked down the room together. 

“ I beg pardon,” he said, dreamily. 

“ What, — are you in love with her too?” Fanny 
asked, with her low laugh. 

“ I? ” exclaimed Medhurst. “ I am not invaria- 
bly in love with girls who are making rich marriages. 
Is she engaged to Heriot, do you know ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! — I fancy not. Indeed, from what I have 
seen and heard, I had supposed she was inclined to 
hold him off. But this does not look so. Perhaps 
she may be jealous of me, and feels it important to 
secure him. Do you think she cares about him?” 

“Diamonds, not hearts, are trumps, I fancy,” 
replied Medhurst; “ and in that case it is doubly 
important, is it not, in case of doubt, to take the 
trick ? ” 

But even while he said it he half hated himself for 
the cynicism. He longed to be away, and made his 
excuses at once. He did not get away, however, 
until he had made an engagement to walk with 
Fanny the next morning. 


166 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS, 


CHAPTER XI. 

MRS. DALTON TAKES A MORNING WALK. 

M RS. DALTON had looked forward to reestab- 
lishing her power easily over Medhurst. Ten 
years before she had obtained a complete ascendency 
over him, when he was a mere boy and she a ma- 
ture woman, three years his senior ; and it was one 
of her fixed beliefs that masculine passion is eter- 
nal. She knew the lack of any durability in her 
own feelings, which were mere knots of ribbon, 
which she adjusted here or there, just as they were 
useful or becoming ; but, with an irresistible feminine 
instinct, she went on counting on the permanence 
of any sentiment she had excited. He had been in 
love with her once ; and, in spite of his youth, there 
had been something about his appeal which had 
forced her to listen. They became engaged, and 
if he had not left her, to study at Heidelberg for 
eighteen months, it is possible that she might have 
become his wife. When he came back, however, 
he soon knew that it was all over. Fanny put the 
case before him with sufficient distinctness. He 
was poor, and was likely to remain too poor 
to marry ; while wealth and position were abso- 
lutely essential to her. The six years since they 
parted, shortly before her marriage to Edward 


A MOBNING WALK. 


167 


Dalton, seemed to her very short and very ineffect- 
ual years. Her marriage had been a disappointing 
experience : a day, an hour, a minute, even, she told 
herself, had shown her that she had made a mistake/ 
She had married a broker, who was, at the time of 
her meeting him, rich. His marriage was the end of 
his run of good luck ; he never was rich any more, 
and, three years after taking a wife, he saw nothing 
before him save getting himself out of the world as 
quietly and expeditiously as possible, in order to 
avert certain uncomfortable exposures. Mr. Est6 
had been wronged by the dead man ; but Mr. Est6 
could be very generous when he chose, and when his 
wife told him he must do nothing to make Fanny 
unhappy, he quietly paid over a certain amount of 
money, and nobody ever knew just what a forger and 
embezzler Edward Dalton had been. The suicide 
had made some details for the morning and evening 
papers for two days, and it might seem strange that 
Medhurst, who was in the way of such news, had not 
known that the man was Fanny Blake’s husband. 
But probably Medhurst’s wildest imaginations would 
never have compassed the idea that the man who 
had the happiness to be her husband could have 
taken himself out of the world in such a way. Mrs. 
Est6 had been friendly to the young widow, ever 
since making her a companion in journeys to Europe, 
and at all times when she needed efficierf^ help and 
companionship. Fanny understood very well that 
she was not to enjoy such advantages for nothing, 
and that it was not worth her while to jeopardize 
them by any sort of behavior Mrs. Este did not like. 
For instance, although Mrs. Est6 had a marriageable 


168 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


son, Fanny was not to flirt with him except within 
bounds. The old lady had extraordinary subtlety 
in such matters, and could distinguish with the 
^Utmost nicety between flirtations of the head and 
those of the heart. Everything was permitted up to 
a certain point, but it must cease there. Fanny 
could carry out these views better than women of a 
more ardent and less restrained temperament. But 
these perpetual warnings had given Rodney Heriot 
a certain value in her eyes. She had liked his fight 
to the end with his step-father ; she always liked a 
brilliant rebel, who never yields, and finally gets more 
than he ever asked for. And was not Rodney 
this child of good luck ? She liked him, too, because 
he lacked discipline ; she hated a man, she declared, 
of whom one could predict to a certainty what he 
would do. Fanny was, in fact, misled by a woman’s 
unreason and by her temperament; she mistook 
almost always the theatrical for the dramatic, and the 
high-sounding for the noble. When she had produced 
an effect herself she felt that something had been 
achieved, and when she in turn was moved by any- 
thing striking she called it great. Thus she under- 
stood by instinct one side of Rodney Heriot’s mind 
without in the least degree mastering the other. It 
always seemed to her they were in complete sympathy, 
because he talked to her with the most absolute free- 
dom, with the same absence of illusion, the same allu- 
sions to actual experience, as if she had been a man, 
never using formulas or'circumlocutions. Rodney had 
repeatedly told her that he hated etiquette and the 
starch of society ; that he had never been able quite 
to distinguish between mere conventionalism and 


A MORNING WALK. 


169 


necessary restriction ; that he liked, in fact, to gam- 
bol on all fours, if he chose. She had humored him 
ever since. She was the most fastidious of women 
where any detail of feminine behavior was concerned. 
She never touched wine. She maintained an exquis- 
ite refinement in even her brilliant mobility ; she was 
absolutely circumspect; but intellectually she gave' 
herself plenty of latitude, and was not easily shocked. 
She and Rodney met on the footing of a man and 
woman of the world. The difference between them 
was that she treated everything like a toy which was 
offered for her amusement, while he broke it open, 
to see what was inside. 

She felt that she understood Rodney ; the man 
whom she did not understand was Medhurst. She 
had been candidly delighted wkh the idea of meeting 
him again. She said to everybody that he was hei 
best-lJftd cousin, and at their encounter she had 
treated him like a cousin. She had felt that to see 
him here in the country, where one was thankful for 
any boon, might be a pleasure, almost an excite- 
ment. But he was not pliable to opportunity ; he 
obstinately refused to accept the role she thrust 
upon him. He had always, she remembered, been 
of stiff clay, and not too easily moulded. She was 
anxious, however, to discover just what was in his 
mind about her, and looked forward to the appointed 
interview with some eagerness. She told Mrs. Este 
before retiring that she had promised to walk with 
her cousin, who had no time to give her except the 
early morning hours. Mrs. Est6 had no objection. 
She thought it was likely to give anybody a long day 


170 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


to rise at half-past five ; to be up at nine o’clock 
had imposed upon the poor old lady some terribly 
endless mornings. 

Fanny was standing at the stile when Medhurst 
came down the Haxtouns’ garden, the fifth of July, 
and at the sight of her he paused and pulled out his 
watch. “ I thought I was not late,” said he. 

“ Of course it ought to be you who were waiting, 
but nothing happens exactly as it did in my youth,” 
said Fanny. “ Having waked up too early I thought 
I might as well come out. There is always some- 
thing unreal to me about the beauty of a summer 
morning, when all the world is asleep.” 

“ By all the world you mean the few men and 
women who live in fine houses. Nature does not 
reserve herself for them.” 

“I confess,” remarked Fanny, laughing, “that 
my powers of imagination are not equal to the task 
of imagining nature going on when I am not. Can 
you conceive, for instance, that Niagara is thunder- 
ing over the precipices at this moment, or that the 
Alps are turning pale after the golden shimmer of 
dawn has died away? When I come away every- 
thing stops for me.” 

“ I never considered that the Alps took it seriously 
to heart when the tourist season was over. One 
might imagine them saying to each other, 1 Now 
that the ant-race has passed we will have some fine 
moments together.’ ” 

“That sounds so exactly like you, Frank. You 
never flattered me nor called my nonsense agreeable. 
If I had made my last speech to Rodney Heriot, he 


A MORNING WALK. 


171 


would have said, c Charming egotist ! ’ and added 
that naturally everything fell to pieces in my 
absence. ” 

“ Having lived six years away from you, going 
through my own course of transformations in lonely 
grandeur, I have solved the problem of how well 
nature does this when you are not looking on.” 

“I am not so sure that you have thriven in the 
process. You have grown thin ; you have lost 
those boyish good looks which every one used to 
admire. There is a little frown between your brows. 
Your voice is dryer. Formerly, your smile was 
open and sunny. I cannot see that you ever smile 
nowadays.” 

Medhurst laughed a little at all this. They had 
continued to stand at the stile, and now he vaulted 
over. 

“Where shall we go?” said he, — “through 
yonder woods, to the quarries?” 

“ I know nothing about the place. We have 
driven about a little, but you may fancy that old 
Mrs. Este’s charioteer is no Jehu. The least jolt 
shakes her to pieces.” 

They entered the woods, which the sun, still less 
than an hour high, filled with curious effects of light : 
here and there night seemed still to hold its own in 
the heavy shadows, and again drops of dew on the 
shining leaves caught the low beams and blazed like 
jewels, while from every thicket came vibrating 
flashes of prismatic radiance. 

“ The earliest pipe of lialf-a wakened birds ” 
had not yet wholly died away. On every side were 


172 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


heard the confused beginnings of their daily toil. 
They were in incessant motion, darting hither and 
thither, and seeming to put a breeze into the leaves 
of the oaks and beeches, keeping up all the time a 
light-hearted, and not unmusical, twittering. 

The situation roused a feeling not unlike pain in 
Medhurst, — a presentiment that something was 
gone from him forever. As they walked on deeper 
and deeper into the wood, every now and then push- 
ing aside the green sprays which, in their unpruned 
luxuriance of June growth, met across the path, 
enclosing the two constantly in a little world of 
radiant green all their own, — he could not help try- 
ing to call up a fragment of the feeling he would 
have had years before alone in such a scene with 
Fanny. To be with her then, out of sight and hear- 
ing of others, had been a reason for pure ecstasy. 
Once they halted for a moment and sat down on the 
trunk of a tree to watch a gray rabbit nibbling a 
clover-blossom in the distance, and they could smell 
the fresh fragrance of some hidden flowers ; while a 
ray of sunlight, piercing through the maples, lit up 
the mosses and lichens at the foot of a great oak. 
A soft air stirred in the boughs above, parting the 
upper branches, and giving glimpses of soft, fleecy 
clouds sailing across the azure. A thrush began to 
sing, not six yards away ; they could see his throat 
swell as the song burst forth, — then came his pro- 
longed sweet call to his mate. In the old time 
Fanny’s presence would have been a matter of 
richer import to him than the beauty of the morn- 
ing ; but now a feeling of intense joy in the simple 
fact of living had nothing to do with her at all. 


A MORNING WALK. 


173 


Once or twice some exclamation almost burst from 
his lips, but he repressed it. He knew she could invent 
a good phrase, but he did not care for phrases. With- 
out thought or volition of his own a wonder floated 
to his mind whether Cecil Haxtoun had ever been 
here in the early morning. Cecil would care more 
,for it than this clever, trained woman, who sat at 
his side, talking occasionally with a gentle languor 
which left him unmoved. 

“ Let us go on,” she said, presently. “ It is horri- 
bly damp here.” She held up a little French shoe. 
“I put on my thickest boots,” she added; “but 
they do not withstand this soaked mould.” 

“ I had forgotten,” Medhurst exclaimed, starting 
up. “We will go on. It is well to be a little 
careful here,” he added, as they took the path again. 
“The banks of this brook are rather treacherous.” 
He helped her across the narrow water-course which 
wound through the elders and hazels. She did not 
let go his arm after they were over, but held on to 
it, and looked up into his face. 

“ Have I not heard,” said she, “ that a witch 
loses her power to. charm, if she crosses running 
water ? ” 

“ Ah, you tremble for yours, do you? ” 

“ I had lost it before,” she exclaimed, in a differ- 
ent tone from that she had used hitherto. “ I am no 
witch where you are concerned, Frank.” 

The ferns had grown so tall on either hand that 
to push their way along the path had now become 
difficult. He had no choice but to drop her hand 
from his arm, and to lead the way along the narrow, 
winding path, green with moss, strewn with leaves, 


174 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


and lighted by but few glimpses of the outer radi- 
ance, through the almost impenetrable thicket. Pres- 
ently they emerged into a cleared opening, where 
they found the sward dotted with solemn young 
robins, abroad for their breakfast, and a little beyond 
the last borders of the wood rose the jagged cliffs 
of a quarry. It opened towards the south, and* 
Medhurst and Mrs. Dalton, a little chilled by their 
long walk through the shadows of the wood, went 
towards a sunny corner and sat down. The clear 
blow of a hammer rang cheerily through the wide 
silences of the early morning. 

“ Somebody searching for fossils, I fancy,” said 
Medhurst. 

“ I have heard of rocks which disclosed the tropi- 
cal flowers of a former period,” said Fanny ; “ but, 
after meeting you, I doubt the truth, qf such tra- 
ditions.” • • 

“ Do I seem dull to you, Fanny?” asked Med- 
hurst, as if suddenly waking up. 

“ Dull is hardly the word.” 

u Well, forgive me. But, then, consider what life- 
less days I spend. I go to bed too late to be ready 
to wake early, and as soon as I have dressed and 
breakfasted I am at the desk again. And such a 
task ! Not arduous, — not demanding any of my 
actual powers, — but stupefying, depressing, end- 
less, giving me perpetual nightmares of mountains 
piled above me. From seven till nine in the even- 
ing I have a little respite, but it is not often I can 
escape from my bondage. Some petty, persistent 
thought is apt to goad me incessantly, so that I am 
glad to be back at my work again.” 


A MORNING WALK. 175 

“ What sort of a persistent thought?” demanded 
Fanny. 

“ Sometimes a mere quibble, — conflicting authori- 
ties or the like ; again, the thought that, as a man 
who wants to do honest work, I have no right to be 
here ; that I ought either to accept my task or reject 
it. I feel often like a hypocrite of hypocrites. A 
wave of shame and regret rushes over me, and I 
long to be free of it. But then I have a sort of 
pity for Mr. Haxtoun. I reflect that few men are so 
fortunate as to be in absolute sympathy with their 
masters. Mine is satisfied with me ; accordingly I 
plod along as best I can. I accepted the service for 
money, and I get my wages. You see what delight- 
ful problems of life mine are. I don’t revolve fine, 
abstract questions ; I simply shoulder the incubus of 
this terrible book, and try to carry it as best I may.” 

Fannie had listened to him with little change of 
face ; but, in spite of her effort to hold her features 
to their former look of caressing entreaty, a peculiar 
and indefinable difference of expression came into 
her lips and eyes. She seemed surprised, and the 
feeling was entirely iugemious ; she was surprised 
to find how little she counted for in Medhurst’s 
mental world. Rodney Heriot had told her of Med- 
hurst’s allusion to a time in his life, six years before, 
and she had unhesitatingly accepted it as clear proof 
that her old dominion was waiting to be reestablished. 
Her first ardent lover is never forgotten by any 
woman, and his promises are the gauge for other 
men’s performances, and his vows the test of their 
constancy. She had felt certain that Medhurst 
would always continue to love her. There are cer- 


176 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


tain beliefs in the world that are accepted without 
comparison with actual data ; and one is, that first 
love is one of the three great experiences of life : 
first, birth, then love, then death. Fanny recalled 
this to her mind now, and said to herself that 
Medhurst must be acting this indifference ; that 
he was still angry with her ; that not even her pres- 
ent widowhood had taken the sting out of the 
wound she had given his pride. She regained her 
self-command with a little exultation. For a mo- 
ment everything had been slipping away from her. 
She had felt old, loveless, and lonely. Everything 
had failed. She had had a bitter sense of the hu- 
miliating tragedy of her married life, which she did 
not often look in the face ; of her uncertain position ; 
of her friendlessness. But, when she assured her- 
self that he was merely carrying out a part his pride 
had imposed upon him, the pendulum swung back. 
Medhurst had been looking at Fanny, and had won- 
dered why her eyes shone with such strange brill- 
iancy, and why her cheeks and lips had grown pale ; 
but even while he was pondering the question she 
all at once resumed her usual expression. 

“ I have been boringyou,” he exclaimed. “There 
is nothing very exciting or picturesque about my 
troubles.” 

“ I am interested in everything about you,” she 
said, with considerable intensity. “ Cannot you 
imagine what it is to hear you talk again, — how it 
brings back all my lost and happy time ? I cannot 
help wondering what sort of feelings are reawakened 
in you, seeing me again.” She had fastened her 
eyes on his. He could not avert his own. 


A MORNING WALK. 


177 


“ I could hardly tell you,” he returned, speaking 
as if under the pressure of necessity. 

“When you heard I was here your feeling was 
not one of pure pleasure.” 

“ Very far from it ! ” 

“ You hated me still for waking you from that old, 
enthusiastic dream, and substituting a rankling dis- 
appointment.” * 

“Do not fancy that,” cried Medhurst. “As I 
told you then, I never wanted you to feel that you 
had done wrong. I wanted you to choose your own 
life. It seemed to me at the time you were making 
a mistake. I believed in my own powers, and could 
not have accepted anybody’s prediction that I was to 
be thwarted and humiliated at every turn. After- 
wards, when repeated hard knocks had told me the 
prizes of life were not to be secured too easily, I 
began to be thankful that you, at least, had been 
shrewd and clear-sighted. I was glad I had not 
pulled you down into the mire with me.” 

She had grown pale again. She bit her lip, and 
something sweet, sad, and supplicating had come 
into her face. 

“ That was the way you thought of me then, — 
you were glad I was not encumbering your way ; 
that ” — 

“ Do not misunderstand me, Fanny,” interrupted 
Medhurst, touched to the quick. 

“But that is what you said. You rejoiced that 
you were free of me.” 

“ Just think of what you had been to me all the 
time I was growing up. You were my first inspira- 
tion, — I might say my last ; for Heaven knows no 


178 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


star has shone for me since. From the time I was 
a little fellow of twelve, and you used to come to 
Uncle Tom’s, you were to me like nobody else in the 
world. You were so tall and slim ; your curls were 
so bright, your eyes so radiant, you were Venus 
and Helen, Athene and Diana, to me. I never 
read a verse of poetry about girl, woman, or god- 
dess, but that it brought up the thought of you. 
In fact, poetry and romance seemed to have been 
created to describe you, since no every-day speech 
could do it. That was when I was a little fel- 
low, whom you used to order .about, cajole, com- 
mand, deride. By the time I was seventeen you 
took notice of me. I was tall enough to give you my 
arm. I had wit enough to make you willing to talk 
to me.^Good heavens, what folly I used to poui- 
out ! I have often told myself since that unless you 
had loved me a little you could not have borne it.” 

“ I did love you more than a little, Frank.” 

“We are cousins, you say; it was quite proper 
you should. But a girl’s little farthing rushlight of 
feeling does not light life for her like a man’s great 
sun of love. We were engaged almost five years. 
I do not suppose there were many waking moments 
of that time when the suggestion of you did not 
underlie ever}^ thought, word, and act of mine. It 
was not alone in the softer ways of love, but you 
were at the root of all my ambition ; all the practical 
details of life, besides all the poetry and romance, 
meant you. And you say I told you I rejoiced to 
be free of you. At this moment I feel sorry for 
myself, Fanny, when I think how I suffered and 
longed for you.” 


A MORNING WALK. 


179 


“ Still you were glad I had married somebody 
else.” 

“I was glad you had made your choice, and 
were happy. I said to myself you would have been 
miserable sharing my lot.” 

44 I was miserable enough in my own life.” 

44 I would rather believe you were happy. I 
would, indeed. You had cost me a terrible price, 
and I should prefer to believe you got something 
for it.” 

4 4 I don’t believe there was a day in all those 
three years when I did not, in some way, frame the 
thought, 4 If I had married Frank this would never 
have been ! ’ ” 

44 Was he cruel to you? ” 

“Cruel? No, if by cruelty you mean that he 
struck me, or spoke brutally. He simply lived in 
one world, and let me go my own way in another. 
He wanted none of my interest and sympathy in his 
private life, and after one glimpse into it I shut the 
door upon it, and never asked a question, and 
tried never to think of what I had seen.” 

44 Do you mean he was untrue to you? ” 

44 No, — I mean he was in a position where he 
had to try one makeshift after another : it was a 
life of tricks, shufflings, subterfuges. When I 
found out that he had no actual means, that every- 
thing he made was by his stock-gambling, I never 
asked him for money. When he had it he gave it 
to me lavishly, and I used to loathe it then. After- 
wards, when I knew all ” — 

She broke off ; her face was dreadful. Medhurst 
could not endure to look at her. All the youth had 


180 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


gone shuddering out of her lips and eyes, and she 
had the look of a fate which destroys. 

44 I ought never to allude to it,” she said, with a 
shiver. 4 4 When I wake up at night, with old 
thoughts haunting me, I deaden them with chloral. 
You see I was not so happy as you believed, Frank. 
If you had known at the time ” — 

44 1 think I should have gone mad,” said he, 
quickly, his face turned quite away. 44 As you say, 
you ought never to allude to it.” 

The sun had gone upward with great strides 
while they sat there, and was now blazing down 
into the quarry ; but until this moment they 
had not felt the discomfort. They rose simulta- 
neously. 

44 1 suppose we must go back,” remarked Fanny, 
44 Must we take that dismal way we came? ” 

44 There is a path by the water’s edge. We have 
to cross half-a-dozen fields to get there.” 

44 It is all very well the coming out,” Fanny said, 
with her usual easy, half-mocking air; 44 but the 
’going back, bedraggled and overheated, is' quite a 
different matter, — the same difference as between 
youth and middle life. Life abounds in moral 
meanings, if one will only accept them.” 

Medhurst did not answer. The conversation had 
taken a turn which he thought unfortunate, and he 
accused himself of weakness in having made con- 
fessions, and extracted confessions in return. That 
he had simply followed Fanny’s lead was a fact he 
did not insist on to himself. What he was conscious 
of was a certain blankness of emotion where Fanny 
was concerned. He had heard her sa} T she had per- 


A MORNING WALK . 


181 


petually thought of him, without a throb of that 
delicious pain he would have counted on at such a 
crisis. A certain definiteness of idea as to where he 
stands is essential to a man’s self-respect ; he can- 
not gaze into unmapped country as a woman can, 
her imagination halting before its unknown barriers 
and boundaries. If he and Fanny were to go on 
exchanging these retrospective emotions it seemed 
to put him in a position which constrained his offer- 
ing her something more tangible for the future. He 
had, however, no wish to marry her now. The idea 
was inconceivable to him. If he had been too poor 
and hopeless for her to marry six years before, he 
was certainly too utterly poor and hopeless to have 
become eligible after all youthful glamour had flatly 
vanished from his landscape, and he saw nothing 
before him save a wide, dull plain, which he had to 
cross somehow. 

They were skirting the newly mown fields, where 
the men were tossing open the swathes, which filled 
the air with a pleasant scent. But the charm of 
the early morning was quite gone ; no more delicate 
shafts of light shot across cool, green, wet vistas of 
bough and blossom. The birds still haunted the 
quiet corners of the meadow, flying off as Medhurst 
and Mrs. Dalton approached, and stopping on the 
upper line of the zigzag fences until they had 
passed. Presently the river was in sight, and a fresh 
breeze met their faces. 

“ Thank goodness ! ” exclaimed Fanny. “ I was 
getting into a very bad humor, and was beginning 
to feel like scolding you for bringing me out, first 
into the wet wood, and afterwards into this fiery 


182 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


furnace. You remember, perhaps, that when I am 
uncomfortable I like to make some one suffer.” 

“ The rest of the walk is pleasanter,” said Med- 
hurst, resolutely commonplace ; ‘ 4 and it was my 
fault that we chose that path.” 

44 I am just the woman I always was,” pursued 
Fanny, — “always capricious, unreasonable, exact- 
ing. Nothing in me has changed, — nothing. Are 
you glad ? ” 

“ Glad ?” said Medhurst. “No; I regret it. I 
wish you might have grown better with all your 
experiences.” 

“How could I? What chance have I had? A 
woman is so weak unless she has the support of a 
good, wise man. I never could live a solitary, 
gloomy life. I cannot bear sorrow and despair ; 
still less can I endure doubt and uncertainty. I es- 
cape from them like a frightened child from a dark 
room. Any one who offers me kindness and sympa- 
thy, tenderness and affection, I am ready to fall on 
my knees before and bless.” 

She turned her eyes towards him, swimming with 
tears. She was quite carried away by the rush of 
her own feelings. 

44 You seemed so cold at first,” she went on, elo- 
quently, 44 1 felt as if everything had been swept 
away from me. I had been looking forward to tally- 
ing with you frankly, and you — you gazed back at 
me critically, and seemed to be asking if I were 
sincere.” 

44 1 did not mistrust you, I ” — 

“You mistrusted yourself,” she said, eagerly. 
44 You were afraid lest that old feeling — sweet, pow- 


A MORNING WALK. 


183 


erful, imperious — should come back and govern us 
both. You might have known yourself, at least, 
better,” she added, with a little cry, which seemed 
pushed from her by an impulse, sudden and irre- 
sistible. 

Medhurst passed his hand over his forehead. His 
heart was beating quickly, and he felt singularly 
disturbed. 

She had stopped short. “Tell me,” she now 
said, holding out both her hands, as if in supplica- 
tion, “ tell me, Frank, when you stopped loving me.” 

He felt singularly embarrassed. His sensations 
were so vague they would have kept him silent, had 
he not felt bound to speak. He was drawn towards 
Fanny, and yet, at the same moment, he felt angry 
with her. She had put him in a position where he 
could hardly be candid. In fact, at this moment, 
he was not certain what the true answer to her ques- 
tion would have been. But she was trembling; 
her face was pale and her eyes tearful. 

“ Fanny,” he said, coldly averting his eyes, “ one 
night, about a month ago, I was on the river, and 
the band on the shore was playing a waltz, — do you 
remember the waltz Cousin Rebecca used to play for 
us while we whirled about in the twilight? Well, it 
seemed to me that night, I had lost nothing, forgotten 
nothing — I ” — He broke off. Their eyes met once, 
then he withdrew his. His own dislike of his words 
grew ; for, while he uttered them, he had no con- 
sciousness of their meaning in his own heart. 

They were now approaching Mrs. Est6’s grounds, 
and soon turned in, walking slowly towards the 
house. 


184 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“Do you know/’ he asked, suddenly turning 
towards her, “ that I have written a book?” 

“No. What book?” 

“ I brought you a copy, but had so far forgotten 
to give it to you, or even to allude to it. Here it is.” 

They had reached the upper terrace ; he put a 
little red volume in her hands, lifted his hat, and 
was off without another word. 


“ THE PLAY'S TEE THING.' 


185 


CHAPTER Xn. 

“ THE PLAY’S THE THING.” 

“If,” said Mrs. Dalton to Rodney Heriot, “you 
were a woman ” — 

“ I never wanted to be a woman,” put in Rodney ; 
“ but, as you see, I want, to be as near a woman as 
possible.” He had been walking up and down the 
square veranda, shaded by red awnings, with his 
cigarette, the remains of which he now flung away, 
while he took a seat close to the rattan lounge, 
where Mrs. Dalton half-sat, half -reclined, a mass of 
muslin, lace, and pale-green ribbons. 

“ If,” she pursued, “ you were a woman like 
me ” — 

“ A devilish handsome woman, Fanny, and a well- 
dressed one ; and a clever one besides.” 

4 4 Thank you ! ” She proceeded — 4 4 and had only 
about a thousand dollars, all told, a lot of pretty 
clothes, and a few jewels, what would you do?” 

44 1 should wear my clothes and my jewels, and 
visit my friends, until I was better off.” 

“But if there were no prospect of being better 
off. If you woke up at night and fell a-crying at the 
thought of a day when no kind friends might ” — 

44 Don’t, Fanny! That tone does not suit you. 
You can be everything except pathetic. You can 


186 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


domineer the world, fascinate it, bewilder it, move 
it to mirth and laughter ; but you cannot move it to 
tears. Why don’t you marry ? ” 

4 * Who wants to marry me ? ” 

41 1 do. I am dying to marry you ; but my mother 
forbids. She comes into my room at night, and begs 
me to give up my infatuation for you.” 

44 Then there is no chance of such good luck for 
me,” remarked Fanny, with her low laugh. 

44 How would Medhurst do? Too poor, I suppose. 
Besides, he is a good, ornamental sort of a lover, — 
a proper kind of hero. It would be a pity to lose a 
fellow like that, who will get up at five o’clock, and 
wet his boots and trousers brushing the dew from 
off the upland lawns. Does he actually make love 
to you at that time of day ? ” 

44 The idea of anybody’s making love before 
breakfast ! ” 

44 Oh, a woman will, — a woman will make love 
from sunrise till midnight ! She is so absolutely 
unemotional she can afford to simmer in a perpetual 
low boil of love-making. Where a man thinks of 
love once, a woman does, on an average, some five 
hundred times. Did you ever hear the story of the 
woman who did not want to be kissed ? ” 

44 No, tell it to me.” 

44 1 see, — you don’t in the least believe that such 
a woman ever existed. This belongs to the Eastern 
folk-tales ; and folk-tales are always absolutely 
true to nature. A man was once walking along a 
lonesome road, with an iron pot on his back, carry- 
ing in one hand a live chicken by the legs, and in 
the other a staff, while he led a goat by a string. 


“ THE PLAY'S THE THING.' 


187 


Thus burdened, he was having a hard time, and 
kept wondering to himself how the deuce he was 
ever going to get to his journey’s end with such a 
load. Suddenly a woman, who was sitting on the 
bank, sprang up and joined him, telling him she 
was going the same way, and might as well keep 
him company. ‘ All right,’ said he ; but he found it 
almost impossible to get strength to answer her 
questions and respond to her talk, which she poured 
forth volubly. After a time, as they went on, the 
road turned and went through a dark and secluded 
wood. 4 Saints, defend me ! ’ cried the woman, 
uttering shriek after shriek as they entered the 
place. ‘What in the world is the matter?’ de- 
manded the man. ‘ I’m afraid if I go any farther 
into this solitary path,’ said she, ‘ you may take 
advantage of my unprotected condition and kiss 
me.’ — ‘ Kiss you ! ’ exclaimed the man ; ‘ how in the 
name of the saints am I to find time to kiss a woman 
while I carry a pot on my back, and a live chicken 
in one hand, and a staff and a cord in the other?’ 
— ‘Oh, nothing could be easier!’ she explained. 
‘ All you have to do is to plant your cane in the 
ground, tie your goat to it by the string, lay your 
pot on the ground, and put the live chicken under 
it, and then you would be quite free to carry out 
your wicked intention of kissing me.’ — ‘Now 
Heaven be praised for a woman’s ingenuity ! I 
should never have thought of that,’ said the man 
to himself ; and accordingly he at once put the staff 
in the ground, and slipped the leash over it which 
held the goat, then gave the chicken to the woman 
to hold while he laid down the pot, and, taking the 


188 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


chicken from her, covered it up closely. And at 
last he kissed her.” 

“ That is an abominable story,” said Fanny. 
“ That was made by a woman-hater.” 

“ I think it very likely. Most good things were.” 

“ Is it not rather singular that men have always 
had their witty say about women, and that no 
woman has yet recorded any really pointed satire 
against men?” 

“ I always fancied that you uttered some such 
things about us when you were together.” 

“No, we don’t. If a woman has a tolerably en- 
durable husband she cackles over it, and a woman 
with a bad husband holds her tongue, knowing very 
well that it would all be considered her own fault. 
Young girls say some severe things against men ; 
but that goes for nothing, as they are entirely unac- 
quainted with the subject.” 

“ It seems a good field for satire,” said Rodney. 
“ Take a pretty woman, with a cool, critical way of 
looking at matters, — like yourself, for instance, — 
she must derive some amusement from our various 
exhibitions of absurdity.” 

“I might if I had a good income. As it is, I 
have always to be thinking about myself.” 

“A delightful subject, certainly.” 

“ And it now brings me round to the point where 
I started from, — what I am to do. What, for in- 
stance, should you think of my going on the stage ? ” 

Rodney had so far liked his tete-a-tete with Mrs. 
Dalton very well ; but he now began to reflect that 
if she were about to bore him he would plead some 
engagement, and go out. The reason he was not, 


“ THE PLAY'S THE THING: 


189 


as usual, spending^ his morning at Rosendale was 
that Cecil was away for a two days’ visit. The time 
dragged a little, and Mrs. Dalton helped it on so long 
as she diverted him and kept him from reflections 
upon the absurdity of his being shut up in a country- 
house without other resources than the society of 
people who could not amuse him, and whom he had 
no desire to amuse. 0 

“We are nowadays so highly civilized,” he 
now remarked, blandly, “ that it is not necessary 
for us to do more than indicate what has been 
already said, and will be said, on every subject. For 
an answer to that question, Fanny, I refer you to 
the first volume of 4 Daniel Deronda.’ ” 

“ I have read Herr Klesmer on the subject many 
times,” she replied ; “ and he certainly covers it very 
well. Still, I am something more than a vain, 
spoiled child, like Gwendolen, who had never found 
out that the world did not begin with her and only 
exist for her sake. Sit still, Mr. Heriot, and let 
me go through a scene or two from a play.” * 
“Here? Now?” 

44 Yes ; why not? Nobody but the birds can hear 
or see. Mrs. Este is taking her bouillon ” — 

44 She has finished,” called a shrill voice. 44 She 
is coming this instant. She has heard every word 
you have both been saying. Rodney knew I was 
just there,” the old lady went on, now adding the 
effect of her pretty, shrivelled face to her voice. 
44 You won’t mind my hearing you, Fanny. I have 
seen all the best actresses. There is something in 
being an old cat with nine lives, as Rodney calls 
me, — she has time to see a good deal.”- 

# 


190 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


The noon was warm, but a lmht breeze blew from 
the river, and they were on tne west side of the 
house, and well screened, not only from the light, 
but from the glare on the water. Just below them 
were flower-beds, filled with masses of the sweetest 
flowers, — tea-roses, heliotropes, mignonettes, and 
alyssums. The bees murmured among them busily 
andjjgreedily, and now and then the whir of a hum- 
ming-bird’s wing was heard as it poised itself in 
mid-air, and sipped with its long, slender bill from 
the heart of the rose. 

Mrs. Est6 took her seat in a long reclining-chair, 
which Fanny indicated for her use, and raised a 
parasol, unfurled a fan, and opened the stopper of 
a vinaigrette . She was never without some of these 
appurtenances, which she used partly as protectors 
and barriers, and partly to hide her incessant 
drowsiness. Having arranged her audience, Fanny, 
who had hitherto been a shapeless mass of furbe- 
lows, surmounted by a blonde frizzle-pate, and a 
sparkling face lighted by a pair of bright eyes, rose 
and crossed the veranda. Rodney looked at her with 
some brightening of curiosity. Her long white 
muslin gown swept the floor with a grace of its own ; 
the perfect line from the point of the train to the 
shoulder was just sufficiently broken by the pale 
ribbon which bound the slender waist. When she 
turned she looked like a different woman from what 
she had been five minutes before. Her dark eyes 
had taken a strange brilliancy, and, as if she had 
grown pale, the sweetness and purity of her beauti- 
ful features seemed suddenly to be cut in the 
whitest marble. She advanced a little, and, without 


“ THE PLAY'S THE THING . 


191 


a word of explanation or preamble, began reciting 
“ Les deux pigeons" from the second act of Adri- 
enne Lecouvreur , and put into it not a little charm 
and pathos. 

“Bravo, Fanny!” said Rodney. “That was 
capitally done. Wait a moment, and let me get the 
book. I will read Maurice’s part for you. Let us 
take the third act, where Adrienne discovers that 
Maurice is the Count de Saxe.” 

Fanny had seen Bernhardt again and again in 
this role , and threw into it a little of the charming 
naturalness and the impassioned womanliness of 
that accomplished actress. 

“ If I could only act up to my part ! ” she said, 
pausing and giving a slight grimace. 

“ Do, do ! ” said Rodney. 

“ ‘ I will be silent, — I will be silent,’ ” she went 
on. “‘How will I imprison my joy, my pride! 
Never will I boast of your love or your glory. I 
will only admire you openly, like the rest of the 
world! Others shall celebrate your exploits, but 
you shall relate them to 1 ' me. They shall proclaim 
your grandeur, your titles, but you shall confide to 
me your sorrows ’ ” — 

They went through the scene. 

“Do I do it pretty well?” Fanny asked, with 
apparent nervousness. 

“O Lord, yes! Too well. You would alarm 
me by your talent except that I know you have 
stolen the art from Bernhardt.” 

“ Try me in La Dame anx Camelias , in the scene 
with Duval,” said Fanny. 

Rodney obyeed with alacrity, and, unde^ the influ- 


192 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


ence of a charming surprise, Mrs. Est6 gave little 
bursts of admiration. She shrieked softly ; she 
wept, or at least dabbled her handkerchief in her 
eyes; and, when they tried Frou-Frou , Fanny’s 
success seemed insured. ^ 

“But, after all,” declared Fanny, “I’m best in 
comedy. I’ll show you Lady Teazle.” And she 
went through a scene with sharp relish of every 
word in the brilliant dialogue and a peculiar, arch, 
piquant charm. “ There ! ” said she, “ have I any 
genius ? Point out my defects ; but let me know if 
you think I have any genius.” 

“ Hang it, Fanny, nobody has got any genius 
nowadays ! ” 

“ I don’t want to go on the stage unless I can be 
successful. Balzac said he wanted his tragedy to 
become the breviary of kings and peoples. I want 
to make people happy and to make them miserable, — 
to send women home in tears, and men with a feel- 
ing that for once they have realized what Romeo 
felt for Juliet, what Antony for Cleopatra.” 

“You are tolerably ambitious, certainly.” 

“ Life has become so mechanical, — so passion- 
less ! Literature no longer moves people. The stage 
is all that remains to show men and women the ideal.” 

“ Heaven help us then ! ” 

“ But have I genius?” 

“ You certainly did those things very well.” 

“ I do not doubt that there are all sorts of diffi- 
culties to overcome ; but, with a little hope and 
help, they need not inspire despair. But tell me 
what you think. I want to carry the world before 
me or else keep on in private life.” 


“ THE PLAY'S THE THING .” 


193 


Rodney looked at her with an indefinable smile. 

“You want success,” said he, “ when you should 
desire the rewards art can give you.” 

“ I want money, and I want glory.” 

“ You may be able to get both. You may succeed 
in attaining neither, but pass your life in feeling 
thwarted desires, miserable jealousies, cruel pangs 
of disappointment. Who knows ? ” 

“ How unsatisfactory you are ! ” 

“ Why shouldn’t I be? Haven’t I tried every- 
thing, and failed? I have always had two frantic 
desires, — one was to achieve something ; the other 
was to be loved devotedly. But nothing ever satis- 
fied me yet. How should I be eager to congratulate 
others on a full meal, when my table is empty and 
bare? Suppose we have a play here? That will 
test you a little. It will, besides, be an occupation. 
You would not mind, little mamma ? ” 

“ Mind? Not at all. We had a play once in the 
picture-gallery, years ago, — the ‘ Loan of a Lover,’ 
— and I was Gertrude. I wore a short frock and 
sang ‘ To-morrow will be market-day,’ and danced 
all about the stage.” 

“ Oh, we will have a play ! ” said Rodney, who was 
thoroughly alive. “We will have a pretty stage ; it 
shall be well set, and a manager shall come from New 
Y ork to put the awkward ones like me through their 
paces. I will paint the scenes.” 

“But what shall the play be? That is always 
the question.” 

“ It hardly need be, with you to be leading 
lady,” said Mrs. Este. 

“ Nobody wants a one-part play for private 


194 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


theatricals. The better the parts, the better the 
acting generally. It needs an artist to find out the 
capabilities of a poor role. Besides, you will want 
Miss Haxtoun to have some fitting opportunity.” 

“Oh, yes, Cecil must have a charming part!” 
said Mrs. EstA 

“ I don’t know,” said Rodney, reluctantly. “ I 
am not so sure Mrs. Haxtoun would wish her to act. 
I am not certain, in fact, that she could act.” 

“Act?” said Fanny. “I assure you she will 
act admirably. She is not in the least an artist ; 
but she has impetuosity, petulance, and is capable 
of lively impressions and fancies. Should you not 
like to see her act?” 

“ On the stage before a crowd? — no.” 

“ I remember hearing once of a French nobleman 
who was prodigiously in lov^ with his young wife. 
One night she came down dressed for a ball, and he 
surveyed her with admiration, but then began pulling 
her gown to pieces. She was so ravishing in that ball- 
dress he declared no other man should look at her.” 

Rodney apparently paid no attention, and at his 
successful air of indifference Mrs. Est6 nodded 
with feminine sagacity to Fanny, who returned her 
look. A few weeks before Rodney had been willing 
enough to talk about Cecil, admiring, criticising, dis- 
cussing, with an absence of sentiment disheartening 
to his mother, who wanted him to fall in love. 

“What play shall we have?” he now asked, 
rather impatiently. 

“ We might consult Frank Medhurst,” said Fanny. 
“ He has surprised me by writing a novel, — perhaps 
he has written a play.” 


“ the PLAY'S THE THING.' 


195 


4 4 What novel ? ” 

44 It lies over there, on the bench.” 

Rodney reached out and took the little red 
volume. 

4 4 4 Bettering Opportunity,’” he read aloud. 
44 What a name ! ” 

44 The novel is not so bad.” 

44 1 don’t like American novels myself. I know 
they are the fashion, and that they are remarkably 
clever ; but their realism is so meagre and crude ! 
They are always giving provincial people’s first 
impressions of things, like the ecstasies of a man 
whose diet has hitherto been hasty-pudding, but is 
all at once initiated into the refinements of the 
comfortable dinner well-to-do people have been 
eating for centuries. The writers take the tone of 
men of the world, but all the time they are naive as 
school-boys. They are afraid of strong emotions, 
and accept mere symbols in place of the realities of 
life. Rut I shall read this. Medhurst interests me. 

I have not yet taken his measure, but now I have 
him at my mercy. 4 Oh that mine adversary had 
written a book ! ’ What is this about ? ” 

44 The hero is a young man who is sent from a 
Puritan home to make his living in New York. The 
city first fascinates him with its splendors and its mys- 
teries ; then, when he begins to know the life better, 
and finds out its wickedness, its cynical views, its 
low aims, he is filled with horror and disgust. It is 
only because he has positively no opening anywhere 
else that he can be induced to remain. But all the 
while his knowledge of the business he has entered 
has been growing, and with his increasing powers he 


19G 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


finds a powerful attraction in its methods and 
subtleties. He attracts the attention of the leading 
manager of the firm, — a brilliant, unscrupulous 
financier, — who further initiates him into the neces- 
sary processes for making money. His first moral 
aversion is overcome, and presently he finds himself 
in the vortex he began by loathing. His will never 
quite consents, but” — 

“ Then comes the guardian angel of his life. Just 
as he is lost he is saved. Love, explanations, 
affecting situations, separation, reunion, marriage, 
— I see,” said Rodney. “ I will begin after the vir- 
tuous young man has fallen. The regeneration of 
a sinner is such a warning example.” 

“I wonder if the book will bring Frank any 
money,” said Fanny. 

“ I suppose it will depend entirely upon whether 
people buy it or not. Did you buy this ? ” 

“Indeed, I did not. Who ever buys a book 
written by an acquaintance? One expects to get 
hold of it in some cheaper way.” 

“Of course,” said Mrs. Est6. “Mr. Medhurst 
has been entertained here ; he ought to send me a 
copy.” 

Rodney burst into the loud laughter habitual when 
he heard anything which seemed to him particularly 
characteristic. 

“It is the most fortunate thing for the world in 
general,” said he, “ that genius is a refractory and 
imperious power, and urges men on to wreak 
their force and spend their inspiration upon what 
will barely give them a living. Nothing but genius 
has saved the world so far, and nothing but genius 


“ THE PLAY'S THE THING." 


197 


will continue to save the world, from its baseness, 
hypocrisy, and affectations. I don’t suppose Med- 
hurst has genius ; nobody seems to have it any 
longer. Once men wrote, painted, acted, with the 
passions which possessed them; nowadays they 
write, paint, and act with the phantasmal likeness 
of the passions they have heard of. But I suppose 
some irresistible impulse urged him to write his 
experience out in this way.” 

“ You may be sure he wanted a little money by 
it, Rodney,” said Mrs. Est6. “Everybody does 
everything for money nowadays.” 

“No, they don’t. Women marry for money, I 
know, and men accept the grossest materialism as 
the rule of their lives. But good, honest, fair work 
is never done for money, and for money alone. 
Don’t you suppose Medhurst might have done some- 
thing more lucrative than write books to amuse 
you ? ” 

“Why did he not do it then?” asked Fanny; 
“ he hates his own poverty badly enough.” 

“He will do something yet to make money. 
Don’t be afraid of being poor, Fanny,” said Mrs. 
Est6. “If poor August was alive he would give 
him a place, for your sake.” 

Fanny shrugged her shoulders and laughed, but 
had the grace to blush crimson, nevertheless. 

“ Let us talk about the play,” she said, putting- 
aside the question of Medhurst’s ambitions, achieve- 
ments, and failures. She did not feel annoyed at 
Mrs. Est6’s perpetual allusions to him ; on the 
contrary, she found them useful. It was very con- 
venient to have the old lady’s insight directed 


198 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


towards the intricacies of a love-affair that ex- 
isted only in imagination. Her intercourse with 
Rodney Heriot was infused this year with a new 
element, which seemed altogether propitious. lie 
was less brilliant than formerly, but he was more 
sympathetic. Just at present she found his eyes 
resting on her. 

“ I wrote a play once, which went off with some 
success at Mrs. O’Hara’s,” he remarked. “ The 
part which Mrs. O’Hara took would suit you very 
well.” 

“ What have you not done? The idea of your 
writing a play ! ” 

“ I hardly think it will dazzle you ; but we might 
look at it, and see if it would do.” 

Rodney went to his room and rummaged for an 
hour, and returned with a voluminous manuscript. 
Fanny had had time in his absence to reflect that it 
might prove awkward if she were to dislike the play. 
She had never received the happiest impression of 
amateur work. But, after some reflection, she de- 
termined to like this immensely, to be delighted 
with it, to make it, if it lay in her power, a great 
success. 


U A WOMAN'S REASON.' 


199 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“a woman’s reason.” 

C ECIL hardly knew herself in these times. There 
were hours in the day when the mere sense of 
living seemed to bring with it a feeling of intoxi- ' 
cation ; when she felt inspired by a happiness that 
answered all her needs, and solved all her prob- 
lems ; but more often she suffered from restlessness, 
from a disenchantment, from a conviction of the 
worthlessness of things. She was torn by con- 
flicting impulses, all of which were restrained by 
a galling self-consciousness. It was the first time 
she had had this painful admixture of feeling, 
and it chained and imprisoned her. It seemed 
impossible to do anything brightly and spontane- 
ously. It was no longer easy to throw her arms 
about her father’s neck, and press her blooming 
young cheek against his withered one, kissing and 
fondling him until he plaintively begged her to de- 
sist. As to her mother, she feared her eyes, and 
found something to rebel against in the very sound 
of her voice. She was proud and reserved with her 
cousin for the first time in her life, and Alec seemed 
to her self-centred and trivial. Alec was in the 
habit, too, of talking about Mrs. Dalton, and could 
expand endlessly on the theme of her perfections, 
all of which were already engraven on Cecil’s heart 


200 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


and brain. Some influence made her at once too 
tender and too hard. She felt stiff, reluctant, and 
rebellious against all the surroundings of her life ; 
yet, at the same time*, she was conscious of a soft- 
ness, a tenderness, she had never known before. 
This is a story as old as nature ; for nature acts 
invariabty in this way on a girl’s heart, — awakening 
in her a longing, unfelt hitherto, for love ; yet for- 
bidding that the intimate and the usual shall satisfy 
the longing. 

Mrs. Haxtoun had not liked Cecil’s looks, nor the 
abrupt alternations of gayety and despondency in her 
manner, and the day after the Fourth of July carried 
her away for a half-week, but brought her back at 
the end of that time with a feeling that, if Cecil was 
to fall ill, it would be better for her to be at home. 
It had all been unspeakably dreary, although Mrs. 
Haxtoun had spent more money than she liked to 
remember. They had been to the seaside ; but the 
tumult and the glare had bee.n frightful. The hotel 
had been filled with people, from whom Mrs. Haxtoun 
averted her eyes, and against whose voices she 
longed to close her ears. Even the majestic, infinite 
expanses of the sea had seemed hopelessly vulgarized 
by the foreground of dreadful groups on the beach. 
Cecil had looked at nothing, cared for nothing, and 
had neither eaten nor slept. Then they left the 
shore and spent a day at a grand country-house, 
full of guests ; and Cecil, instead of being, as usual, 
a little queen of the revels, had hidden herself in 
corners, and declined to dance, and, altogether, 
behaved in a way to half-break her mother’s heart. 
All this would have been very well, and her heart 


“A WOMAN'S REASON' 


201 


might well have been in the highlands a-hunting the 
deer, except that the highlands were at present too 
populous. Mrs. Haxtoun came back to Rosendale 
bold and aggressive. She was fully determined now 
that Medhurst should go away ; and, without losing 
any more time, intended to rouse Mr. Haxtoun to a 
full sense of the position. 

Cecil brightened a little in coming home. She 
had had a vivid consciousness all the time she was 
away that much must be going on, and her mind 
had been busy concerning the events in progress in 
her absence. Once in her usual place, however, 
everything seemed stagnant and lifeless. Lilly had 
nothing to tell her except of Arthur’s comings and 
goings, and that Alec spent all his evenings with 
Mrs. Dalton. Concerning Medhurst Lilly was too 
discreet to utter a syllable. Cecil saw him at table, 
when he shook hands with her mother, bowed to 
her, and expressed some satisfaction that the} r were 
at home again ; but after that he did not even glance 
in her direction. 

But Alec had plenty to tell bis sister. Alec was 
the least impressive of talkers when he was discuss- 
ing general topics ; but he would talk about himself 
with a naive candor, and with an occasional felicity 
of description, that was a capital method of com- 
municating what he considered •trivial and side 
issues. Now, for instance, he confided to Cecil, 
liow, early one morning, he had chanced to be look- 
ing out of a window, when he saw Mrs. Dalton — 
absolutely the beautiful Mrs. Dalton — standing at 
the wicket at the end of the garden. On such a 
challenge as this what should he naturally have 


202 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


done except to jump hastily into his clothes, 
with the intention of joining her? But, alas! just 
as, after enduring a thousand petty obstructions in 
the way of refractory buttons and braces, he had 
surmounted all difficulties, and was slipping in his 
scarf-pin, he took one peep out the window to make 
sure of his prize, and what should blast his sight 
but a glimpse of a sft*aw hat just vaulting over the 
fence ; and in another moment Medhurst and the 
beautiful widow turned into Mrs. Est6’s woods and 
vanished. • 

“ That was the longest day I ever passed,” Alec 
pursued, in a tone of deep indignation. “ I did not 
feel like going to bed again, being so thoroughly 
awake, so I went down on the piazza, and waited 
for the fellow to come back. I give you my word 
he did not get in till half-past seven ; he was away 
with her two full hours ; but I heard her say after- 
wards that she detested early morning walks, early 
morning doings of any kind, — so that sounds as if he 
did not make himself especially agreeable to her.” 

“ Oh, you cannot tell ! ” cried Cecil, with a little 
tremor in her voice. “She will say anything for 
effect. She has little suggestions, and phrases, and 
compliments which she dispenses around just as we 
do pictures and bric-a-brac, to make something out 
of nothing, to fill empty spaces, anti give an air of 
attractiveness to our rooms. She says the same 
thing over and over ; she flatters everybody to their 
faces, — you have heard her talk to papa ” — 

“ I like a woman to make herself pleasant,” said 
Alec. “You see, Cecil, you don’t know the world, 
and you can’t half appreciate a woman like that. 


tl A WOMAN'S REASON ” 


203 


She knows how to set a man free, as it were, from 
his inexperience and awkwardness. Why, when I 
talk, by Jove ! she listens to me as if I were a — a 
Socrates ; and she not only listens, but she leads me 
on. I can say more, I can think more, with her in 
ten minutes than I ever did in a day with anybody 
else. She ” — 

“ She is a coquette!” cried Cecil, peevishly. 
“She is a wicked, dangerous coquette!” 

“ She is not a coquette at all. I never saw a 
woman with so littleteoquetry. She is practical and 
sensible ; she likes real, actual things, and if, now 
and then, she indulges in nonsense and badinage, it 
is just by way of relief from heavier subjects.” 

“ She is deep and designing,” murmured Cecil. 

“I am sure I don’t see why you should dislike 
her,” said Alec, in a tone of excessive injury. 
“ Heriot is not making love to her. With all his 
advantages he keeps the coolest tone, and seems 
perfectly willing I should be there ail the time.” 

“ I do not dislike her in the least,” Cecil explained, 
with some dignity ; “ but I confess I do not like her. 
She may charm men, but women know each other 
better,” declared the young cynic. “ As for Mr. 
Heriot, I think him quite a match for her in every 
way. They have lived in the same world, they have 
the same mannas and the same toqe, and have mas- 
tered the same arts.” 

“ Oh, you’re jealous of her, Cecil. I see ! ” 

“ Jealous ! Nothing of the sort.” 

“ You will not confess that she is beautiful.” 

“ She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw in 
my life.” 


204 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ That is something like it. What could surpass 
that red-gold hair ; those dark eyes ? ” 

“ Alec, you are infatuated ! ” 

“ The exquisite, clear-cut features ; the carnation 
of the lips on that beautiful, pale, cold face.” 

“ Alec, you composed that with a pencil and 
paper in your hand, or else you got it out of some 
foolish book.” 

“ What do you suppose she says of me? ” 

u That you are a nonsensical boy.” 

“ Indeed, she has never given me the faintest 
intimation that she considers me young. She says 
I am a born actor.” 

“ A born actor ! ” repeated Cecil, in a tone of in- 
credulity. 

“You know there is to be a phiy.” 

u A play ? ” 

“ A play. Mrs. Dalton is to act!** 

“She acts everywhere, — in the parlor, out-of- 
doors ; wherever she is she play3 a part, and it is 
quite conceivable that she should take naturally to 
the stage. But what about the play? Is it to be 
at Mrs. Este’s?” 

“Yes; the picture-gallery is to be turned into a 
theatre.” 

“ It all seems to have been decided on very 
hastily. I heard nothing of it before I went 
away.” 

“ They sent over for Medhurst, night before last, 
to discuss the subject.” 

“Oh!” said Cecil, in quite a different voice. 
“ So Mr. Medhurst is to be in it?” 

“ He says not. He declares he has no time. He 


“ A WOMAN'S REASON .” 


205 


was asked to name some suitable play ; and they 
sent to New York for a long list of comedies, vaude- 
villes, and farces winch he made out, but have 
finally decided on a play of Heriot’s.” 

“ I should never,” declared Cecil, with a strange 
accent, “ have supposed that Mr. Medhnrst would 
care about such social follies and vanities as private 
theatricals.” 

“ He seemed to be chief adviser. He is a regular 
literary fellow. It seems he has written a novel.” 

“ A novel!” Cecil repeated, her color changing. 
“ What novel? ” 

“ I have forgotten the name. They are reading it 
over there,” said Alec, indicating Mrs. Est6’s house. 
“ They discuss it a good deal ; in fact, I confess, I 
have grown tired of the subject. Well, to-night I 
am going over to read Ileriot’s play ; Medhurst is 
going too, and there will be some final decision 
as to the performance.” 

“ Am I to be asked to act? ” asked Cecil, in a 
manner which left it undecided whether she would 
treat any such invitation with cordiality or con- 
tempt. 

“ I don’t know,” returned Alec. “ I dare say. 
Nobody has mentioned your name ; but then ” — 

“Do not say that I asked; do not let anybody 
fancy that I was curious on the subject,” cried 
Cecil. 

Alec promised he would not allude to her, in the 
tone of one for whom such reserve did not involve 
any self-denial. In fact, Cecil said to herself, she 
was quite unimportant. Nobody had consulted her ; 
nobody had waited for her. The “ art of keeping 


206 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


things going, and herself on top of them,” belonged 
to Mrs. Dalton, and to Mrs. Dalton alone. She 
herself was far away from the vortex, and would 
not allow herself to be drawn in by the mere force 
of the eddy. 

But Cecil had new thoughts, and was inspired by 
fresh force. It was a thing, first, to ponder over, 
that Medhurst had written a book ; and, in the 
second place, she must have that book. Still, she 
was at a loss to know how to find herself in posses- 
sion of it. She did not even know the name. She 
remembered that the daily papers had literary 
notices and publishers’ advertisements, which had 
hitherto been matter to her of no concern. Now 
she undertook to look through the “ Ledger,” u Trib- 
une,” and “ Transcript ’’for the last month. This was, 
in itself, an enterprise requiring effort, patience, and 
secrecy. So far all the undertakings in Cecil’s short 
life had been the theme of her tongue, — she had 
demanded sympathy, approbation, and applause at 
every step. Now she studied in every way to avoid 
observation. The papers were in the library, and 
the library at this time of the year was used chiefly 
as a thoroughfare to the side-piazza, where some 
one was generally sitting. Accordingly, to lay hands 
upon and carry off, unseen and unsuspected, some 
fivescore of papers, required dexterity and wit. 
But difficulties and dangers like these could be over- 
come. The real task lay in finding time and 
opportunity to search these papers through. One 
never could be sure where the item might be. Ac- 
cordingly, lest it might lurk in some secret corner, 
Cecil was compelled to go through the sheet column 


“A WOMAN'S REASON .” 


207 


by column. This might have been- done if she 
could have ensured herself safe seclusion in her 
own room. But Lilly’s little apartment opened out 
of hers, and it had been the habit of their girlhood 
to merge the two sleeping-chambers into one. The 
door was never closed, although the chintz portiere 
might be stretched across it. Lilly had never in her 
life put on a dress without a few moments of 
hesitation as to which of them she should choose. 
Every little frippery of lace, ruff, or ribbon had to be 
talked over, compared, held up in different lights. 
It was not, perhaps, that Lilly wanted advice, but 
that she liked to give each event of her little life its 
full importance ; and she knew better, perhaps, the 
value of her own opinions after hearing the im- 
personal views of others. Cecil, on her side, had 
always had plenty of reasons for looking in upon 
her cousin at every turn of her toilet. Cecil’s mind 
was not so many-sided in the matter of dress ; but it 
was while she was brushing her hair, or adjusting her 
tuckers, that vivid, brilliant, and startling ideas 
assailed her, and she would rush to the door with 
“O Lilly dear, I have the most delightful plan!” 
In fact, the idea of any special privacy in her own 
room had never occurred to either of the young 
girls ; and now that Cecil had this herculean task of 
looking up an advertisement, it may easily be seen 
that she had to evade a pair of bright young eyes, 
full of curiosity, suspicion, maliciousness. Lilly 
soon discovered that something was going on ; but, 
on account of the little coolness growing up between 
her and Cecil, she determined to use her observation, 
instead of her tongue, in finding out what this 


208 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


sudden absorption in newspapers meant. Three 
times in a single day she surprised her cousin be- 
hind a great printed sheet, her eyes roaming, intent, 
eager, dilated, her lips apart. And when she looked 
up, and met Lilly’s eyes, there was an unmistakable in- 
dication of being detected in something secret, almost 
illicit ; and she wore such an unmistakable air of ex- 
citement that Lilly exhausted herself in conjecture 
as to what it all meant. She felt as if she had had a 
ke} T put into her hand, but had no idea into what 
secret chambers it led. If Cecil found anj^thing to 
fascinate, absorb, and kindle emotion, in those stupid 
papers, Lilly felt that she could do the same, and 
gain equal entertainment of a high order. Lilly 
could hardly wait for her turn to come, and felt it a 
lucky chance when Mrs. Haxtoun, at dinner, remarked 
that she and her daughter were on the point of sally- 
ing forth to pay visits until tea-time. 

No sooner was the carriage out of sight than Lilly 
flew up the staircase. Her impulse had always been 
to help herself to the good things which people 
were too disobliging to offer her. Here were the 
piles of papers hidden behind the' chintz curtains, 
and here was Lilly, with wide-open e} T es, ready to 
devour whatever they contained. For a quarter of an 
hour she felt on the verge of some exciting discovery ; 
then the occupation began to grow monotonous. It 
was very vexatious that she had not the ke} 7 , after 
all. She only saw a closed door before her, while 
she grew every moment more and more conscious 
she had no key whatever to fit. Lilly began to 
grow angry. The thought suggested itself that 
Cecil had been playing her a trick ; that she had gone 


“A WOMAN'S REASON 


209 


elaborately to work to rouse her curiosity, and then 
put obstacles in the way of her satisfying it. At 
this moment, when Lilly was on the verge of an 
ebullition of wrath, Cecil came in ; that is, she 
opened the door, and, seeing Lilly in the window- 
seat, stopped short, turned, first, red, then pale, and 
put on a delicately disdainful air. 

“ I thought,” faltered Lilly, “ you had gone to 
pay visits.” 

“We met Cousin Rebecca coming here, so we 
turned back,” returned Cecil, calmly. “ I am very 
sorry to interrupt 3'ou, Lilly. Pray go on,” she 
added, with ironic politeness. 

“ Seeing the papers here that you were reading,” 
Lilly returned, “I thought I would sit down and 
look them over.” 

“ Very dull reading I found them,” said Cecil. 

“ I never in my life saw you so excited over 
anything as over those papers,” declared Lilly, who 
felt snubbed and extinguished by Cecil’s grand 
air. “ I wanted to see what it was. I hate mysti- 
fications ; I hate concealments ; I like everything 
open, fair, and above board.” 

“ I see you do,” Cecil replied, still with something 
exquisite in her dignity. “ As to the papers,” 
she went on, “ pray carry them into your own room, 
and look them over at your leisure. I meant to 
have rung for Martha to take them away.” 

This was the truth, for Cecil had found nothing 
about Medhurst’s book in the papers. She might 
have been inclined to enjoy the present moment, 
when, without pressing the point with obtrusive 
candor, she had still proved, with perfect clearness, 


210 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


to Lilly that she had been making a goose of herself. 
But Cecil was preoccupied, and knew, too, who had 
been the first goose. If she once knew the name 
of the book it would be a simple matter to procure it. 
A note to the bookseller’s, on Market street, and up 
it would come by book-post, and she would be on 
the watch for it. One unused expedient remained, 
and she now made up her mind to avail herself of it 
next day, first making sure that she was in no 
danger of being caught in the act. She had already 
searched the study, and there was no sign of a 
novel there, and her thoughts now turned to Med- 
hurst’s sleeping apartment. She set out to go tip- 
toe through this room, with the hope of finding the 
book lying on the table or the shelf. She knew that 
her mother and Lilly were both showing the farthest- 
off flower-beds to some visitors ; she could see the 
group from the window. Medhurst himself was in 
the study, and Mr. Haxtoun was walking up and 
down the terrace with a guest. The servants never 
came into this part of the house at this time of the 
day unless the bell rang for them. In spite of these 
precautions Cecil turned the door of Medhurst’s 
room with a beating heart and a pale face ; then, 
once inside, at the motion of the lace curtains 
waving to and fro in the afternoon breeze, a 
bewilderment seized her. She stopped short, turned, 
and was about to flee. Voices seemed calling to her ; 
warning apparitions floated to and fro. She knew it 
was only the wind in the trees, and the river reflections 
on the ceiling, but something disturbed her to the 
bottom of her soul. She felt that if she could open 
the blinds, and admit air and light, she might throw 


“A WOMAN'S REASON: 


211 


off this stifling sensation which impeded her. She 
did so ; but at the moment a ray of sunlight, making 
its way through the group of beeches, struck upon 
her forehead like a tongue of flame, and seemed to 
burn her. She fled on the moment, trembling from 
head to foot. It took her half an hour to regain her 
equilibrium. All was in confusion within her. 

Meanwhile Medhurst finished his afternoon’s 
work, and, what was unusual with him, found an 
errand to his room. He had never felt that the 
pretty, boudoir-like apartment really belonged to 
him, and he kept his own implements and appoint- 
ments well out of sight, in order not to spoil the 
pretty and coquettish effect. Hence any kind of 
disorder attracted his eye, and, at the sight of 
something lying on the floor, he at once picked it 
up. It was nothing of his own ; something, on 
the contrary, soft, filmy, the edges set off by deli- 
cate embroidery. It was, in fact, a handkerchief, 
with Cecil’s name worked in the corner. Med- 
hurst held it for a few moments, regarding it in- 
tently. Certain pictures of Cecil, possibly in this 
very room, appeared vividly in succession before 
his mental vision, and twice in his reverie he 
applied the soft linen to his cheek. Emerging 
from this dreamy condition he went downstairs, 
still holding the handkerchief in his hand, and, 
going out on the' porch, looked .up the broad walk, 
which led straight to the garden. Half-a-dozen 
ladies were walking there, near the summer-house, 
where he thought it probable tea was being served. 
He went down the steps, and sauntered towards 
the group, with no especial purpose in his mind. 


212 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


He was looking for Cecil, and onlj r Cecil ; and the 
light parasols and dresses of the other ladies were 
merely accessories of the scene, like the flowers 
and shrubs. All at once, however, he received a 
sharp rap across his shoulders, and, turning, saw 
Mrs. Est6, who had jumped up, in her pretty, in- 
fantile way, from a bench, and now assailed him. 

“I was wishing to see you. I was talking 
about you,” she cried, with vivacity. “I was 
telling Miss Haxtoun about your book, which she 
says she has not seen. Sit down, and explain 
why you keep such talents in the dark. Such 
strength, such depth, such tenderness ! And the 
love scenes, — they wrung my heart! They are 
just like life. Ah, youth, youth, how can you 
know such things?” 

Mrs. Este was brandishing a point-lace parasol, 
with an ivory handle, which struck feebly and 
indefinitely wherever it chanced to alight ; and Med- 
hurst was stabbed, by turns, in the breast, in the 
neck, and in the eye, by this delicate weapon. 

“Shall I furl it for you?” he inquired. “You 
are quite in the shade here.” 

“ Oh, it is my weapon, my shield, my hel- 
met,” said Mrs. Est6, with her little shrug of the 
shoulders. “ I don’t want to be looked at too 
curiously. You might find out how many wrin- 
kles I have got, you clever, observant C3 T nic ! ” and 
she thrust it in his face again. 

In spite of this candor Mrs. Est6’s appearance 
was as youthful as it was brilliant. She wore 
a white veil, and behind it her complexion appeared 
absolutely dazzling. She was dressed in a long, 


“A WOMAN'S BE AS ON." 


213 


trailing reception-dress, of pale azure; and a 
small bonnet, with the same exquisite shade re- 
peated in its plumes, surmounted her soft, snowv 
curls. 

Her ruffled sleeves reached only to her elbow, 
and her little arms were covered with loosely fit- 
ting gloves. Cecil had brought her a cup of tea, 
but she declined it. She was perhaps not pre- 
pared to raise the silvery film of a veil which 
made her so radiant. 

Medhurst looked at her with a soit of bewildered 
admiration. 

“ Miss Haxtoun says you have never said a word 
to her about your book ; how is that?” demanded 
Mrs. Est6. “Is it a secret? If it were a secret 
why did you not tell it to me, instead of to Fanny 
Dalton ? I can keep a secret. I have sympathy, 
sentiment, silence. I am never grand ; but then I 
am never petty ! I am faithful — I am ” — 

“I am too unimportant a person to have it 
matter whether my name is known as the author 
of the book,” said Medhurst. “ It belongs to an 
anonymous series, so I never discussed the matter 
with the publishers.” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Cecil ; “so your name is not 
given ! ” 

He was struck by the vibration of her voice. 
Looking at her he saw that it accorded with the 
excited expression of her face, and the brilliancy 
of her eyes, which were fixed and opened wide. 

“No,” said he, quietly. 

“ The name of the book is 4 Bettering Opportu- 


214 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


nity,’ I hear,” she went on, with some significance 
in her tone. 

“ Don’t read it,” he exclaimed. “ I beg you not 
to read it, Miss Haxtoun. It is actually of no 
importance.” 

“ That is what one likes in you,” struck in Mrs. 
Este, with a little shriek, and now piercing his 
temple with the sharp point of the parasol- tip. 
“You are so quiet, so modest, so reserved, one 
does not know what is in you. 1 should not be 
surprised to hear that you were a prince in dis- 
guise, should you, Cecil, dearest?” 

“ Nothing in the way of silence, disguise, and 
successful mystification would astonish me where 
Mr. Medhurst is concerned,” said Cecil, in a low 
tone, which Mrs. Est6 did not quite catch. 

“And in the theatricals,” Mrs. Est6 pursued, 
“we want him to take a part suited to his good 
looks and his talents ; but there this' modesty and 
self-restraint come in again. He refuses to do 
anything except by way of filling a gap. If one 
yawns wide enough to threaten to destroy the 
chances of the play, he is willing to throw him- 
self into the gulf, like Marcus Curtius.” 

“ That is noble,” said Cecil, in an ironic tone. 

“We have come over to ask Miss Haxtoun to 
take the part of Nathalie,” said Mrs. Est6. “ Mrs. 
Haxtoun has given her consent, and also that Miss 
Winchester shall join us ; but here is this little girl 
quite refractory and rebellious, and flatly refuses to 
act.” 

“Indeed? That seems a pity,” said Medhurst. 


“A WOMAN'S REASON: 


215 


“ Miss Haxtoun would show no meagre abilities in 
that line, I fancy.” 

“You have read the play, I believe. What part 
do you think I ought to take? ” Cecil asked, with a 
little, disdainful smile. 

“ Dear Lady Disdain,” said Medhurst, still hold- 
ing Cecil’s handkerchief in his hand, now crumpled 
into the smallest wad. 

Engaged in this little war, neither Cecil nor Med- 
hurst had noticed that Mrs. Dalton stood close be- 
hind them, on the turf, having crossed from the 
summer-house, with her soft, floating movement. 
She was looking from one to the other, and seemed 
excessively amused. A brilliant spot of color burned 
on each of Cecil’s cheeks, and they were repeated in 
Medhurst’s. There were in the air of each unmis- 
takable signs of their having recentty passed some 
flood-tide of excitement ; but what their faces 
showed their words hardly accounted for. 

“Are you talking about our poor little play?” 
Mrs. Dalton now asked, in a pretty, caressing way. 
“ I dare say, Miss Haxtoun, if you felt any timidity 
about undertaking a part, that my Cousin Frank 
would train you a little for it.” 

“You are ever so kind,” said Cecil; “ but I 
should not like to have to wait until Mr. Medhurst 
had time to teach me.” 

“ He would like nothing better,” pursued Mrs. 
Dalton. “ He has drilled me many a time.” 

“ Now he can drill you over again,” said Cecil, 
with a little, joyous laugh. 

“ Now I am too old. To be young, and to be 


216 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


blundering and ignorant, that may be borne. But, 
Miss Haxtoun, you will play, will you not? ” 

“ I have told Mrs. Est6 I cannot undertake it.” 

“ Perhaps Mrs. Est6’s son may shake your resolu- 
tion.” 

“ Mr. Heriot can be very eloquent,” put in Med- 
hurst. 

“Well, perhaps, if he is very eloquent,” said 
Cecil. 

“But what is your objection?” asked Mrs. Dal- 
ton. “ Everybody loves to play, now. Nine women 
out of ten long to go on the stage. Did you never 
have the inclination?” 

Cecil shrugged her shoulders slightly, and smiled. 

“ One gets so tired of one’s little scrap of exist- 
ence,” pursued Mrs. Dalton. “ By the time one is 
twenty-five it is all mapped out, and one can survey 
one’s own mental estate and consider how dull it is. 
In real life you only have one chance. You may, 
perhaps, be a Juliet, — and it is very pretty and 
pathetic to be a Juliet, — but it comes to an end very 
soon. On the stage there are no limitations : one is 
a Juliet, but one is also a Cleopatra; a Marguerite, 
but also a Rosalind. Should you not like that, Miss 
Haxtoun ? ” 

“ I am afraid I have not sufficient imagination,” 
Cecil replied, with an air of candor. “ Besides, it 
seems to me my vitality is more complete when I am 
just myself, than it would be if I tried to be a little 
scrap of this, and again a little scrap of that. There 
is not enough of me to go round. I should be dread- 
fully piecemeal.” 


“A WOMAN'S REASON." 


217 


Mrs. Est6’s parasol had been quiet for a few mo- 
ments. She had, in fact, indulged in one of the 
little naps she could not resist when she had not the 
full weight of the conversation upon her. But she 
now reemerged with extreme vivacity, and gave 
Medhurst one of her playful taps, asked Fanny if 
she were ready to take leave, and demanded to be 
taken to her carriage. 


218 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


TWO LOVERS. 


T had been Mrs. Haxtonn’s reception-day, and 



-I- the last afternoon guest did not take her de- 
parture until' it was almost dark. Ever since dinner 
Cecil and Lilly had been making coffee and tea, and 
sending cups about, out-of-doors and in. Cecil’s 
little excursion into a forbidden land, which we 
dwelt on in the last chapter, had not taken many 
minutes, and had been unnoticeably niched between 
the speeding of certain guests away and the- wel- 
coming of new ones. By eight o’clock she was 
very tired ; but she knew that the lull was merely 
temporary ; and that shortly the evening visitors 
would appear. 

“Iam going to walk in the garden a little, by my- 
self,” she said to her mother. 

“ Do you not want Lilly to go with you ? ” 

“Lilly and Arthur? No, thank you. I would 
rather be quite by myself ; it will freshen me a 


little.” 


She ran out at once into the warm, scented dusk. 
A faint wind had risen, which made the tree-tops 
wave, but did not descend except occasionally in 
sweet, deep breaths of cooler air, for which one 
waited as for a reviving cordial. Far up in the 


TWO LOVERS. 


219 


north-west a vermilion flush of sunset lingered still, 
and away in the east the sky was taking a glow 
which heralded the moon. The silence was intense ; 
the river showed by glimpses faintly cold and gray. 
The flowers had all turned white, and a rose-bush, 
laden with straw-colored blossoms, looked like a 
Christmas-tree hung with pale lamps. Cecil stood 
still and looked up ; not a star was out. Yes, there 
was Arcturus; and the Dipper suddenly gleamed 
faintly. All at once a thrush, belated, or in its first 
happy dream, gave forth its last burr. She started 
as if frightened, then, gathering up her skirts in her 
hand, ran lightly down the broad, gravelled walk. 

Near the summer-house she paused. It had grown 
darker since she came out. The east was brighter, 
but the moon was not yet up. Still every object 
rose half-dim, yet distinctly, in the shadowless 
twilight. It seemed to her some one was sitting in 
the arbor, and she hardly liked to advance. A 
moment ended any uncertainty, for at her first sign 
of hesitation Medhurst came towards her. She 
gave a cry of surprise. 

“ Pray, do not be frightened,” said he. “I have 
been sitting here since the afternoon/’ 

“ All alone? ” 

“ Quite alone. I do not know who would keep 
me company.” 

“ I came out to feel the coolness,” said Cecil. 
“I was very warm and very tired.” 

“Your coming gives me a chance to restore this 
little article of yours,” said Medhurst, whose manner 
was unnecessarily haughty. He held out the hand- 
kerchief. 


220 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“What is it?” she asked, doubtfully. 

“ A handkerchief ! ” 

“ Oh, thank you so much.” 

“ Having accomplished that duty, I will take my- 
self off,” said Medhurst. “ You can continue your 
stroll undisturbed.” 

He was about to move past her, but she stretched 
out her hand. “ Stay a moment,” she exclaimed, 
with an imperative gesture. ' “I have sent for your 
book.” 

“That was unnecessary. Had I supposed you 
would care to read it I would have offered it to you. 

I kept two copies ; one I gave to Mrs. Dalton.” 

“I preferred to buy it,” said Cecil. “I have 
sent a postal card to papa’s place in town, and it 
will be up to-morrow.” 

“ I should like to have given it to you. I should 
have done so, had I not felt that it might be con- 
sidered a piece of presumption on my part.” 

“Do not speak in that way,” said Cecil, with a 
tremor of something like indignation in her voice. 

“God knows,” continued Medhurst, with some^ 
heat, “ I want to keep my place here with what 
show of propriety, humility, and decency I can ; 
but where you are concerned I seem constantly in 
some way to overstep the appointed boundaries.” 

“ I do not know to what you allude.” 

“Do you not? I should not know how to make 
it clear to you. One night you were on the river in 
the boat with me, and what could have been more 
genial and friendly than your manner? — you showed 
sympathy. A few days later you made it exceed- 
ingly plain that I was not to remember those two 


TWO LOVERS. 221 

pleasant boars, or, at least, to count on them as an 
assurance of any permanent kindness from you.” 

“Do you mean the Fourth of July?” asked 
Cecil, in a low voice. 

“Yes, I mean the Fourth of July.” 

“ 1 should have said that instead of” — Cecil 
began with intense earnestness, but then broke off, 
and remained obstinately silent. He waited, but 
she made no further effort to conclude. 

“Do not fancy that I mean to complain,” he 
said, proudly. “ I wished merely to prove to you 
that my intention is to take the place you accord to 
me in the house. The position I hold is anomalous, 
and I have not sufficient tact or knowledge of 
social rules to define what its duties are. frwould 
not for the world presume ; but, at the same time, 
I hate to fail in any obligation. I am sorry I did 
not at once present my stupid little novel to Mrs. 
Haxtouu.” 

He had said all this in a tone of intense annoy- 
ance and mortification, but with a sort of restraint, 
as if every syllable of explanation cost him dear. 
'In fact he had been furious in the afternoon, and 
still remained furious. He could see her young face 
shining in the first beams of the rising moon. The 
white light changed its usual rosy, almost childish, 
oval into a new beauty and a new expression. She 
looked to him like a goddess. 

“ You see,” she said, in a hopeless tone, “you do 
not know me. It is impossible for me to — to be 
always the same. Besides, I am pulled first one waj 7 , 
and then the other ; it is not always all my own fault. 
It is ” — 


222 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


44 Pray do not make these confessions. You are 
certain to regret them. You need tell me but one 
thing, — of what were you accusing me, when you 
declared to-day that nothing in the way of silence, 
disguise, and successful mystification would surprise 
you where I was concerned? ” 

44 Did I say that?” 

44 Precisely that. You said it, too, with a direct- 
ness and vehemence which -showed it to be the 
overflow of some long, bitter, and suspicious 
thoughts in your mind.” 

44 I ought not to have said it.” She spoke almost 
under her breath. 

44 Certainly, if you felt it you were right in saying 
it. Mp only question is, what meaning was in your 
mind?” 

u You had told me the story of your life, you 
know,” faltered Cecil. 

“Well, yes.” 

She had drawn nearer to him. He could see her 
face plainly ; childish, supplicating, and intensely 
serious. 

“ Then,” she went on, brokenly, l l when I saw you 
meet Mrs. Dalton, I said to myself, 4 He told me 
nothing, after all.’ I could no longer feel that you 
had been open and candid with me. I believed 3 T ou 
had withheld what was actually of interest and im- 
portance.” 

Medhurst was frankly amazed. He seemed to 
feel his head swimming with a multitude of impres- 
sions. He might have been amused, except that her 
absolute naivete , and her obedience in answering 
his demand, touched him. 44 But,” said he, singu- 


TWO LOVERS. 


223 


larly embarrassed, — “ but how can a man speak of 
such things, and to a young girl? I had nothing to 
tell that sounded heroic or successful, and it would 
have seemed a pity to add a commonplace story of 
slighted love, like mine. ,, 

“ A commonplace story?” 

“We were engaged for a time,” said Medhurst, 
in a dull voice, “ and then she married Dalton.” 

“ How terrible ! How cruel ! ” cried Cecil. 

Medhurst was silent. 

“ The night you were in the boat, and I was talk- 
ing about myself,” said he, after a short pause, “ I 
was not thinking of her at all. I had no idea what 
had become of her. Presently 3^ou told me she was 
in this neighborhood. Even then I supposed she 
was still mari-ied.” 

“You did not know when you met her that day 
that she was a widow ? ” 

“ No. She told me herself.” 

They were both silent. Medhurst stood, with 
his arms folded, looking down at the young girl. 
He did not care to analyze the feelings stirring 
within him. She seemed timid, but there were still 
signs of her being excited and absorbed. 

“ I had heard that you were once engaged to her,” 
Cecil now said, looking up at him. 

“ Who told you?” 

“ Mr. Heriot.” 

“ It is hardly worth talking about. What is past 
is past.” 

“ Perhaps I ought to tell you,” began Cecil, but 
paused. 

“ Tell me what? ” 


224 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ That one reason I have longed to read your 
book is, that ” — 

She hesitated, and he finished the speech for her. 

“You think I have written down ray love-story? 
You don’t know me. Peeping and botanizing upon 
my mother’s grave ? No. I have just given my para- 
ble against this dishonest, materialistic, accursed age. 
That is all.” 

The stillness grew appalling. The glow of sunset 
was quite gone from the west, and on that side the 
trees gloomed together in great masses ; but against 
the east they showed the interlacing of their 
branches, and the net- work of their leaves, as the 
full moon floated up, each moment openiug new 
vistas and casting fresh shadows. The house 
stood at the end of the long walk, with its long, 
gleaming, lace-curtained windows lighting up its 
dark height. 

“Ought you not to go in?” Medhurst asked, 
suddenly. 

“Perhaps so,” she said, timidly; then she put 
out her hand. “Tell me you are no longer angry 
with me,” she murmured. 

He could not have helped taking the hand with- 
out repulsing her, and, taking it, he grasped it 
impetuously, then dropped it on the moment. A 
sound suddenly pierced the silence ; footsteps were 
heard. 

“ Walk toward the house quietly,” Medhurst 
said, in her ear. “ That is Heriot. Don’t let him 
know I was here.” 

Cecil obeyed mechanically. She was a .little 
bewildered, but she was not confused. She neither 


TWO LOVERS . 


225 


sawMedhurst nor heard him, as he leaped across the 
wide flower-beds which bordered the path, and 
vanished behind the shrubbery. She had time for 
about twenty steps before she became actually cer- 
tain that some one was approaching. Then a figure 
began to take shape out of the gloom, and presently 
Rodney Heriot had joined her. 

44 Your mother sent me out to take care of you,” 
he said, coming close to her and pausing. 44 She 
said I might walk with you here a little.” 

44 I was just going in.” 

44 Do not go in. Stay here with me. Inside it is 
stifling, and they are talking endlessly about the 
most uninteresting things. Here it is a foretaste 
of heaven.” 

44 My ideas of heaven are so different from 
yours.” 

44 You have so many ideas; You don’t seem to 
know the proper feminine attitude at all.” 

44 What is that?” 

44 Looking up, and adoring and receiving.” 

44 I should like to look up and adore,” said Cecil, 
with a sort of petulance. 44 I wish I were a little 
child, to be governed and led, and kept out of mis- 
chief.” 

44 Kept out of mischief ! ” repeated Rodney, in a 
tone of incredulity. “ What do you mean?” 

44 1 don’t know,” said Cecil, turning abruptly 
away, and staring hard at the moon. 

44 1 will keep you out of mischief,” said Rodney. 
44 Take my arm, Miss Haxtoun, and let us walk 
along.” 

Almost to his surprise, she obeyed. 


226 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


It was the first time he had ever been actually 
alone with her, and something soft and compliant 
in her mood enhanced the worth of his opportunity. 
A thousand fancies whirled through his mind : he 
might end his uncertainty by offering her marriage ; 
he might, better still, make some advances, which 
should give him a sight of that delightful country 
which he coveted, without making him wholly lose 
the charm of his free, roving life outside ; then, 
again, it was possible to make her like him a little 
better. He might talk, not plead ; be himself, not 
act ; and she might become stirred, touched, fasci- 
nated. If a man could not, under such skies, on 
such a night as this, say something to the woman he 
loved, he had better hold his tongue ever after. All 
he had to do was to feel, and to let himself go. Rod- 
ney could be eloquent enough upon occasions, and he 
wondered where his wit was now. He was dumb. 

“ What are you thinking of? ” he asked presently, 
finding silence irksome. 

“ I was not thinking.” 

“ Then I trust you had not committed yourself to 
the thought that I was stupid.” 

“ I am not apt to think that. I generally consider 
you too clever for any of us. I might call myself 
stupid, but I always reflect that it does not matter. 
If you were bored you would go away. I cannot 
imagine you a victim to be pitied and have your 
wrongs redressed.” 

“ You could not pity me, then ; and you fancy I 
have not been bored since I came to stay with my 
mother ? ” 

“ You would have gone away if you had been very 


TWO LOVERS. 


227 


much bored, or if you considered you would be less 
bored in other places.” 

“ You are right. I had no such inducement to go 
awa}’ as I had to remain.” 

Cecil said nothing. Rodney himself felt in- 
explicably happy. It would have contented him to 
walk up and down till midnight in this bland, fresh 
air, with her hand on his arm. If he could have 
put hi§, hand over hers, that would have been 
delicious ; but he delayed even making the attempt, 
preferring that imagination and illusion should have ' 
their hour first. He was faintly troubled by stray 
fears that she might be finding him tiresome. He 
had never had to ponder the matter before, how and 
to what degree he pleased a woman ; whether the 
intellect, the heart, or the spirit ; whether deeply, 
superficially, or not at all. But Cecil was to him 
inscrutable. Without life and without experience 
he could not tell what a woman’s impressions might 
be. She might find a man passionately in love a 
grotesque object. He remembered once being at the 
Theatre Italien with a party, among whom were two 
young American girls. It was a “ Trovatore ” night, 
and the tenor was superb, and sang Non ti scordar 
di me as it had rarely been given, even in Paris. It 
quite melted him, and, to hide a certain emotion, he 
started to go into the lobby, and there chanced to see 
that the two girls were in fits of laughter. He sup- 
posed at first it was hysterical ; but it was explained 
*to him, with easy candor, that they found Manrico the 
most irresistibly funny object as he sang, because he 
opened his mouth so queerly. The impression he 
gained at that moment had been a bar to his adrnira- 


228 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


tion for young girls for man}' a clay after. It was 
possible that Cecil had some sarcastic idea in her 
mind now, which she would either launch at him on 
occasion, or whisper to her mother or cousin after- 
wards. He felt that he ought to rouse himself, to 
talk, to act. But then that endless thrusting and par- 
rying, which women call conversation, was so hard and 
coarse, compared with this fine pleasure his thoughts 
gave him. The most delicious images gathered 
shape, and passed vividly before his mind. There 
was immense sweetness in feeling that he was 
almost face to face with a charming fresh and wholly 
passionate experience just behind the veil which he 
ought even at this moment to lift. 

44 Mr. Heriot,” said Cecil. 

“Well,” he answered, almost amazed that an 
expression of intense tenderness did not instead 
issue from his lips. 

“You say nothing to me about the play.” 

' The nlay — the play — the play,” he said, with 
an aecer. a* if wishing to annihilate the play. 

4 • Well, w’ at of it? *' 

“ They were asking me to take a part.” 
u And } T ou declined. I admired you for it.” 
“Why?” asked Cecil, hesitatingly. “Did you 
really prefer I should not play? ” 

“ I hate to think of you in connection with the 
rivalry of actors, the foot-lights', the rouge, all the 
tawdry paraphernalia of even a mock. theatre.” 

“ Yet you were anxious to have Mrs. Dalton act.”* 
“Do you suppose I put you and Mrs. Dalton in 
the same category? Why, Cecil, if the alternative 
were between your becoming a woman like Fanny 


TWO LOVERS. 


229 


Dalton or my mother, yet being wholly and entirely 
mine, and staying as j t ou are, and my parting from 
you forever, — nevermore to look upon your face, — 
I would not hesitate for a moment.” 

“You ought not to speak of your mother in that 
disrespectful way.” 

“ But then, my first passion was for my mother, 
and no man can close the account of his first passion 
and not be a little bitter over it. You can’t begin 
to think how I worshipped her when I was a little 
fellow. She was so pretty, so delicate ; I thought 
her the finest lady in the world. I used to sit 
and watch her make her toilet to go out to parties, 
and her little arts bewitched me. I dare say she 
has two women to dress her now ; but then she did 
everything herself, even to making her own gowns. 
She had the brightest blonde hair, and it curled at 
the merest touch of her little, slender fingers. 4 Now, 
just a tinge of pink,’ she would say, and her cheeks 
would brighten up into the prettiest blush. 1 My 
eyes are dull,’ she would go on, and a line of black 
under the lower lid made them largef and sadder. 
I did not see the harm of it, and I did see the charm ; 
and I used to flatter her, and she told me nobody 
else’s compliments counted at all. We used to 
chatter aud flirt like a boy and girl, and with her 
hand on my arm I was as happy almost — as I am 
to-night. When we sat opposite each other at meals 
we used to talk brilliantly and wittily, I thought. 
Well, Cecil, one day I went into the parlor and saw 
her pretty blonde head against a man’s shoulder. 
Yoa have seen Est6, and know what a Hyperion he 


230 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


was. Henceforth he made a third in our little para- 
dise until I was cast out.” 

“ But now you have got her back again.” 

“ No, — that dream was over. I may easily be 
deceived once ; but, undeceived, my eyes are blinded 
no more. She was perfectly well satisfied with her 
ape ; his antics did not mortify her. She had all 
the money she wanted, and could out-dress and out- 
shine the women she had been competing with at a 
disadvantage before.” 

“ But can 3^011 not forgive her, now that she is 
old?” 

“ Oh, I forgive her! I hated Est&, but I never 
hated her. Still, when I say within myself that I 
am nothing, nobody ; have attempted nothing, 
achieved nothing ; lived for the moment only, yet 
gained nothing of worth from even its pleasures, — 
then I say it is all her fault. But, after all, I do 
not believe it, even when I declare it most intensely. 
And now that I am used to her again I occasionally 
feel a trick of the old love. She is such a foolish, 
kittenish, old cat.” 

He had let himself go and had been carried away ; 
but not by the deep thought which burned in his 
heart. 

“ But, Mr. Heriot,” said Cecil, “ do you think I 
might withdraw my refusal to act?” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” 

“ And you will not mind having me in the play? ” 

“No.” 

“ Then, if I may, I will accept.” 

“ Ah, I see ; you want to put on a little rouge ! ” 


TWO LOVERS . 


231 

“ no ! Nothing would induce me to wear 
rouge.” 

“ Y° u can’t help yourself. You cannot be two 
people at once. You cannot say, I will be simple, 
natural, true, and at the same time be the other 
thing. Well, don’t put on any rouge when you walk 
in the garden with me.” 

“We must go in,” said Cecil. “ The wind is 
colder ; I feel chilly.” 

“ There was something I wanted to say to you ” — 

u You can tell me inside.” 

“ Are 3 T ou actually cold? ” 

“lam shivering all over. Mamma will be quite 
vexed with me for staying out so long.” 

“ It was so pleasant,” said Rodney, “ that I put 
it off too long. I shall not tell you my secret to- 
night, nor I think will I go in again. You can bid 
Mrs. Haxtoun good-by for me.” 

He did not even ascend the steps, but stood on 
the drive, watching Cecil as her light shape crossed 
the porch and vanished inside the lighted door. 


Is a> 


232 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER XY. 

A STAR-CIIAMBER MATTER. 

O N a summer night so many things under the 
wide skies listen and wait, it would have been 
strange if the secret of Cecil’s meeting with Med- 
hurst had not been blabbed aloud. Lilly Winches- 
ter had said to Arthur, after Cecil had run out into 
the twilight, that she, too, wanted a walk, and the 
engaged lovers had strolled away, as if to go to 
the water’s edge. Half-way down the terraces Lilly 
paused. 

“Don’t say a word, Arthur,” she whispered; 
“ I’ll explain afterwards, but I want to go up to the 
garden through the grapery.” 

Under the trellises, covered with their luxuriant 
vines, all was dark as night ; but Lilly knew the way, 
and led her bewildered lover swiftly, but stealthily, 
up the slopes, now and then turning to give some 
word of warning and to repress any possible excla- 
mation forced from him by his increasing surprise. 
Arthur never pretended to comprehend Lilly. One 
of her most irresistible charms to him was th ^he 
soared above him in wit, resource, and -en^cij^iise. 
Her little tricks and minauAwies sometimes struck 
him as suggestive of dangerous mischief going on in 
her mind ; but when she turned her bright little face 
towards him it would have been r jite impossible 


A STAR-CHAMBER MATTER. 


233 


for him to suspect envy, hatred, malice, and all un- 
charitableness, behind that pretty mask of rose and 
white complexion and blue eyes. Besides, if she 
drew him into a morass, she never left him there to 
flounder alone, but was certain to extricate him, 
even at the risk of getting into deeper mire herself. 
She never expected anything of him except sympa- 
thy ; so now when she behaved, as at present, with 
an impulse and vehemence rather uncalled for by 
the occasion, it was his habit to reflect that she knew 
veiy well what she was about. He . hated the 
trouble, but he admired her energy. 

As they neared the garden Lilly paused. A broad 
walk ran to the summer-house from the side-piazza, 
bordered by wide flower-beds, which, approaching 
the arbor, emerged into an elaborate arrangement of 
circles, triangles, and squares, all bedded with 
summer and autumn annuals and perennials ; conse- 
quently there was a wide space which the two con- 
spirators could not cross unseen. Lilly had hoped 
to get behind some of the shrubberies before Cecil’s 
slow saunter had brought her to this place. But 
not so. Five minutes later, however, Lilly could not 
sufficiently congratulate herself that she had not left 
the gloom of the grapery ; for, as Cecil strolled down 
the path, Medhurst, as we have already noted, came 
out of the summer-house, and the two met, not six 
yards away from Lilly. She could hear their voices, 
but not their words ; but what were words? It was 
enough to see what was going on. If there was 
anything Lilly abhorred it was an underhand action. 
Frankness, candor, and light, being the elements 
she lived in, it grieved, it even revolted, her to wit- 


234 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


ness this clandestine meeting between Cecil and 
her father’s secretary. There could be no doubt 
that the stolen meeting had been arranged. And 
since such iniquities were successful she could not 
sufficiently applaud her own foresight in coming 
to assure herself exactly how affairs stood. 

A trial to her nerves was in store for her, how- 
ever. While she stood using every glimmer of the 
lessening light to see what was going on, apparently 
without signal, preparation, or warning, Medhurst, 
who the second before had taken Cecil’s hand in his, 
all at once changed his tactics, and, making a mighty 
jump, cleared the flower-beds at a bound, and strode 
into the grapery, upsetting Arthur, who was bal- 
ancing himself meditatively on one foot, and wish- 
ing he could light a cigar, by way of passing the 
time. 

“ You prying rascal ! ” muttered Medhurst, 
“ what are you doing here? ” 

But he waited for no answer, and strode on, 
leaving Arthur to gather himself and his dignity up 
together as he best might. And Lilly’s lover was 
so confounded by the unexpected turn of events 
that he hardly knew how to do either, and sat on 
the moss gazing at Lilly, with a blind rage at some- 
thing, he knew hardly what. It might be a mistake, 
but how was he to ignore a mistake ? He expected 
a full and complete apology from the author of it at 
once, and said to himself he did not know what 
would happen if Medhurst did not come instantly 
and humble himself before him. Besides humility 
from Medhurst he had a right to expect full and 
complete sympathy from Lilly ; but that young lady 


A STAR-CHAMBER MATTER. 


235 


was too much engrossed by the developments of 
the situation to waste feeling upon him at that 
moment. 

“Hush!” she whispered imperiously at his ex- 
clamation; “Hush!” and enforced the command 
with a frowning brow and a raised forefinger. 
Everything has its limits, and Arthur felt the floods 
of bitterness surge over his soul. It was bad 
enough to be led about by Lilly like a dog, but he 
certainly had no intention of letting other people 
treat him like a dog. 

To do Lilly justice, she felt for her lover thus 
ignominiously upset by Medhurst in his hasty re- 
treat ; but then she saw that he had been taken for 
the gardener’s boy, or some understrapper about the 
place, and she found relief iu this erroneous notion. 
When she and Arthur were on their way back to 
the house she tried to make it clear to him that he 
must forgive the accident, and cherish no bitter or 
vindictive feelings in consequence. And at Arthur’s 
indignant declaration, that he was going to knock 
Medhurst down the next time he saw him, she inter- 
posed all sorts of warnings, threats, and entreaties. 

“He must never know who it was; it would 
look very queer if we were discovered to have been 
listening there.” 

“ It would look very queer if I allowed myself to 
be knocked down by a secretary fellow, a mere ” — 

“ But, don’t you see, Arthur, that we could not 
explain.” 

“ I don’t want to explain, — I want him to ex- 
plain,” persisted Arthur, in whose brain, for once, a 
clear idea was working with a sure leaven. 


236 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Lilly was in the habit of fitting her lover out 
with the ideas he was to express, like a child who 
dresses her doll with the clothes she chooses her to 
wear. She generally told him how any fresh cir- 
cumstance was to strike him, and had a wonderful 
knack of supplying his mental deficiencies out of the 
storehouse of her quick fancy. Now, however, he 
had gained a vivid and a personal idea, and she 
could not dispossess him of it ; and for once she 
was compelled to feel her lack of power, and to 
realize that if, at exactly the right moment, she had 
offered some gentle and affectionate commiseration 
for his scraped knee and bruised shin she might 
have lost none of her usual advantages. 

She hastened with her ston 7 , however, to her aunt, 
and put an end to all the hopes that had been 
agitating that good lady’s bosom at the thought 
that Cecil was walking in the garden with Rodney 
Heriot, by moonlight, and gave her, instead, a night 
of excruciating disappointment. Certainly, nothing 
could well be more tantalizing than Medhurst’s un- 
necessary and uncalled-for intrusion into the little 
idyl which had begun, and was going on charmingly 
before he came to spoil everything. But yet Mrs. 
Haxtoun blamed herself. She had allowed insig- 
nificant impediments and fanciful objections to 
stand in her way when she should have struck a 
swift and effectual blow, and sent the young man 
out of the house. Her timidity concerning her 
husband had amounted to treachery towards her 
children’s best interests. Iler most powerful motive 
was overcome by the more feminine bias of wish- 
ing to please her husband and humor his self-love. 


A STAR-CHAMBER MATTER. 


237 


Lying by his side, all that short summer night, Mrs. 
Haxtoun thought, with impatience, of the many 
problems of her married life, and had an especial 
scorn for her feeble good-nature and general incom- 
petence. She had begun b}' flattering his illusions ; 
by listening as if, when he opened his lips, he spoke 
the profoundest wisdom ; had fed his vanity and 
pampered his infirmities, until he fairly believed 
that the end of her life was to answer his prepos- 
terous claims upon her concession and endurance. 
He felt as if he were the family aggregate, and the 
other three, nearest and dearest to him, lived on his 
thoughts, fattened on what he liked, and cheerfully 
abjured what he abjured. And why should he not 
thus delude himself? Had she not given up every- 
thing? Had she not taught her children that they 
must cheerfully yield to their papa, lest he should 
possibly find things going wrong, and be depressed 
and put into a bad temper? When he intimated to? 
his wife that he swayed the universe a little, had 
she not, with the sweetest cajolery, intimated that the 
universe might well be swayed by such a man ? If 
he made himself disagreeable in society, with all the 
clearest consciousness in her own mind that he was 
cutting a bad figure, did she not blame all the world, 
and reinstate him in his own esteem ? 

Ah, how hard it was, thought poor Mrs. Haxtoun, 
to draw the line ; to love, and give all, and do ail ; 
to suppress all personal sensitiveness and inclina- 
tion, and widen every impulse until it became a 
beneficent river of sympathy for one’s husband, and 
yet mot make the balance of things go wrong! 
When Mr. Haxtoun turned on his pillow that morn- 


238 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


ing, and found his wife gone from her place, he 
little knew how her night had been spent. Every- 
body who lives with us has an account-book of our 
doings and strivings, which they add up from time 
to time, balancing them against their own perform- 
ances, rarely making out much in our favor, and 
generally putting down a tremendous deficit to square 
our account. But Mr. Haxtoun had never found this 
out ; and that his wife was given to this sort of debit 
and credit kind of thing, and was about to right mat- 
ters at last, was far from being vividly realized by 
his waking imagination. 

She was not beside him, and this absence stirred 
an idea that it might be late ; but, upon looking at 
his watch, he discovered that it was unusually early. 
He had half an hour to lie and meditate before he 
need bestir himself for bath and toilet. Man} 7 a 
great author has done half his work of the day when 
he was lying in bed ; - a^d Mr. Haxtoun, now, at 
once, without dribbling .nd wasting his fresh powers, 
turned his mind to the composition of a nobly turned 
paragraph for the opening of his tenth chapter, of 
which the heading and title had been written the day 
previous. He lay repeating various formulas to 
himself, rehearsing them over and over, satisfying 
his ear concerning their melody and rhythm, adding, 
rejecting, and qualifying. Mrs. Haxtoun, who had 
n )• a ■ irise, and had been sitting, unnerved and 
faint, from want of sleep, in the bay-window of the 
hall, reading the morning service and the lessons 
of the day, came in presently, and stood, for a 
moment, listening to the preamble : — 

“ It must be admitted that, although extravagant 


A STAR-CHAMBER MATTER . 


239 


pretensions have dazzled and carried away a certain 
order of minds, indifferent to the whole system and 
direction of close logic, and to the collected results 
of the best and maturest thought of ages, the 
knowledge it has taken centuries to accumulate.” 

By this time Mr. Haxtoun experienced the need 
of a secretary ; it was difficult to keep both the roll 
and the sense, and to look up and see his wife at 
this juncture was a happy condition of affairs. 

“ Good-morning, dearest Jenny,” said he. “ Just 
oblige me by taking those tablets, and writing 
down this sentence. I don’t wish to lose it.” And 
he began again to roll forth, with appropriate elocu- 
tion, “ It must be admitted that, although extrava- 
gant pretensions have dazzled and carried away a 
certain order of minds, which — which — which — 
to — how did I have it? A certain order of minds, 
to whom — how was it? My dear Jennj T , how un- 
luck} r that }’ou should hav« interrupted me at that 
particular moment ! I woke up with the most un- 
usual flow of ideas, and now they seem quite upset. 
Let me begin again. It must be admitted that, 
although extravagant pretensions have dazzled and 
carried away a certain order of minds, indifferent to 
the whole system and direction of close logic, and 
the collected results of the best and maturest 
thought of ages, the knowledge it has taken cen- 
turies to accumulate, — that all makes or^od - . 
does it not. my do r ? ” 

“J really do not know,’’ said Mrs. HaxtcunJ- 
tabiet in hand, plaintively and qu&rsJousfy. u The 
sentence sounds to me already very long, and it 
seems to be only just begun.” 


240 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ When a writer wishes to work out certain care- 
ful results, which he has carried through heats of 
controversy, he cannot sum up the thing like a 
mere general theorem, which nobody wishes to dis- 
pute. Profound meditations like mine, complete 
absorption in one grand, central idea, to which 
everything leads, and from which everything di- 
verges, — make the perfection of a style. I have 
been much struck by Medliurst’s conversion to my 
ideas. At first, he was all for brevity ; wanted to 
strike out this amPeurtail that. He was bitten b}' the 
mania for paragraph writing, which our journalists 
have taken from the French. I have taught him 
better.” 

“ My dear, I want to speak to you about Mr. 
Medhurst,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, with a vigor and 
alacrity which might have startled her husband, had 
he not been engrossed. 

“We have not finished that sentence, Jenny. I 
had it quite worked out in my mind before 3 011 came 
in. Hereafter, I think I will have the tablets lie here, 
by my watch, so that I can put my hand on them 
the first thing. I lose many valuable ideas from 
not jotting them down On the instant ; I ” — 

“ Leonard,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, in a perfect 
agony of nervousness, “ there is something I wish 
particularly to say to you.” 

“ Do you really mean that I am quite to lose all 
that inspiration? If jam should go away for about 
ten minutes I have uo idea but what I could get it 
back; I” — 

“ Dear Leonard, what I have to s&y is most im- 
portant ” — 


A STAR-CHAMBER MATTER. 


241 


Mr. Haxtoun waved his hand and tried to smile. 

“Say on, my dear,” said lie. “I have got a 
headache already ; but no matter. I suppose it is 
something about some trifling household matter, 
about which I have neither knowledge nor theory/ * 

“ No,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, impressively; “it is 
about your daughter.” 

“About Cecil? Surely there is nothing which 
calls for a tragic face in anything Cecil has done.” 

“ It is about Cecil and Mr. Medhurst,” whispered 
Mrs. Haxtoun. “ O Leonard ! if you love me, if 
you care for me and my peace of mind in any degree, 
send that young man out of the house.” 

“ A most exemplary young man, — a most pleas- 
ing and agreeable fellow, — a most valuable acquisi- 
tion,” said Mr. Haxtoun, in a tone of the liveliest 
conviction. “ Never in my life have I seen anything 
equal to his capacity for work, his ready acquisition 
and assimilation of ideas. And I can trust him 
better almost than I can myself, — he is never run 
away with by silly conceits and half-digested theories ; 
he makes no mistakes ; he saj's all the time, when my 
imagination threatens to run away with me, — 4 Give 
me facts, facts, facts, facts.’ ” 

“My dear,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, to whom these 
statements were sufficiently conclusive in their way, 
but did not touch the point, “ I dare say he may be 
useful to 3’ou ; but he is making love to Cecil.” 

“ Oh, no, Jenny ! Whj T , when has he any time? 
He is utterly taken up with the book. Last night, 
now, I left him writing hard at half-past eleven, and 
he said he had at least an hour’s work before him, 

I have never heard him speak of Cecil ” — - 


242 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Speak of her! Why should he speak of her? 
What right has he even to look at her? ” 

‘ 4 But he does not look at her. He ” — 

44 Leonard, which do you think the better judge 
of a situation like this, a woman, a mother, — all 
the time on the alert for her daughter’s happiness, 
— or ” — 

44 My dear Jenny, I know my own powers of ob- 
servation. I am not a dry bookworm. Although 
I am a writer, and am at work upon a book re- 
lating to abstruse and curious facts, traditions, 
and theories, the real force and power which give 
me inspiration come from my swift insight, my un- 
erring knowledge of character, my absolutely feminine 
instincts. If Medhurst had a thought of anything 
beyond the Aryan epics I should long since have 
discovered it. He throws himself into the labor 
with an intensity, an abandon, which proves conclu- 
sively that no romantic fancies have the least power 
over him. Not that I should especially object to 
his marrying Cecil ; it might ” — 

Mrs. Haxtoun could have shrieked, if all her ac- 
tions were not governed by the most absolute good 
taste and quietness. She felt dizzy with wrath, 
mortification, and a growing sense of the difficulty 
of her undertaking. 

44 It might,” he pursued, after taking a compre- 
hensive view of the situation, “bea great help and 
convenience to have Medhurst always at hand to 
help on my great ” — 

Mr. Haxtoun paused abruptly, happening for the 
first time to observe something in his wife’s face and 
manner which perplexed him. It occurred to him 


A STAR-CHAMBER MATTER. 


243 


that she was at one moment flushed, and the next 
pale ; that she seemed to be trembling ; that she was 
charged with some mission, or actuated by some 
idea, which agitated her. 

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” he exclaimed. “What 
is it, Jenny? It gives me a palpitation of the heart 
to have disagreeable subjects forced upon me before 
breakfast. Nothing that I eat will digest. I shall 
have an uncomfortable day, and I shall not sleep to- 
night. You know that I am always ready to give 
you the fullest sympathy ; but it really seems to me 
that you ought to consult my wretched state of 
health a little in your times and seasons.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun quite broke down. These recur- 
rent demands for apology and self-justification 
quenched her spirit. Still she resolved to con- 
centrate herself, and make an attack. 

“Dear Leonard,” she exclaimed, with tears, 
“there are times when we must forget ourselves; 
when we cannot allow our love of ease and self- 
indulgence to rob us of our self-respect. It will not 
do to be monomaniacs with one fixed idea, and wear 
blinkers, which permit us to see only one spot 
in the world.” 

Mr. Haxtoun, who so far had been bolstered up 
by the pillows, sat up in bed. 

‘ 1 A monomaniac, with one fixed idea,” he repeated. 
“ I — I don’t quite understand you, Jenny.” 

“ Don’t fancy I meant anything personal. I ” — 

“Oh, no ! A monomaniac, with one fixed idea,” 
he said again, the force of the expression gathering 
strength by the repetition of it aloud. “ Blinkers, 
which permit me to see onty one spot in the world 


244 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Mrs. Haxtoun had concentrated her powers with 
a vengeance. She had not only struck the arrow 
home, but had hammered it in. A little bitterness 
had been gathering in the good lady’s heart during 
all these years of self-repression ; she may have re- 
lieved herself at times by little mental epigram- 
matic touches, and had her revenge upon her husband 
by a sort of terse criticism of his failings. But she 
hardly knew herself when she uttered them aloud. 

“My dear Leonard,” she faltered, I” — 

“ Suppose, Jenny,” said Mr. Haxtoun, with awful 
majesty, “ we should give up recriminations and in- 
vective, and regard the subject in hand. There was 
something, perhaps, you wanted to ask me ; if not, 
I think if you will step in the next room I will get 
up.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun felt lost in infinite dismay at her 
own perverse temper, and thoroughly realized that 
she had injured her cause. She at last had the field 
to herself, and her husband was ready to listen ; 
but her story, when it came out, was disjointed, 
incoherent, meaningless. When he questioned her, 
as he did with merciless skill, she perpetually found 
herself in a maze of contradictions and uncertainties. 
When he asked for facts, she had no facts. She 
knew of no word Medhurst had said to her daughter 
which might not be spoken before all the world ; 
and yet she felt so certain that something the young 
man had said, something the young man had done, 
had tricked the young girl’s heart away. Thus 
looked at, any trifle had seemed portentous ; but, 
when offered to this stern Radamanthus, it did not 
carry a feather’s weight. 


A STAB-CHAMBER MATTER . 


245 


“I really cannot see what your objection to my 
secretary is, my dear,” Mr. Haxtoun finally said. 
“ Cecil speaks to him occasionally, as if he were a 
living human being. She went rowing on the river 
with him by her own invitation. If she met him in 
the garden, last night, she seems to have been look- 
ing for him.” 

“ He is too good-looking to have about the house,” 
she interposed. 

“ If your sex is so weak-minded that the .presence 
of a good-looking young man cannot be borne ” — 

44 My dear!” 

It was long past the time when Mr. Haxtoun was 
in the habit of emerging from his room, carefully 
shaven and dressed, for his turn on the piazza, or 
terrace, before breakfast ; and his wife began to 
understand that it was better for her to retire 
and leave the contest a drawn battle. Her husband 
was soft and plaintive ; but she knew his look, whicl 
meant a refusal to accept any opinion or valuation 
except his own, and that he was irritated, and on 
the lookout for pretexts for offence. 

44 You will think of what I have told you, I am 
sure, Leonard,” she said, offering him a chance for 
a truce. 44 There is Mr. Heriot, almost on the point 
of declaring himself ” — 

44 Mr. Heriot I should not consider an eligible 
son-in-law.” 

Mr. Haxtoun certainly had a genius for torturing 
his wife. She had carefully abstained from bring- 
ing in Rodney Heriot’s name before, lest it might 
do mischief ; but she had believed it wise for her to 
offer this suggestion just as she was on the point of 


246 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


retreating, that in his mental survey of the situation 
that argument might have the fullest force. 

She could say no more, and she went out without 
another word. It quite broke her heart to see how 
little sympathy there was between her and her hus- 
band on vital questions. Mr. Ileriot not an eligible 
son-in-law ! No special objection to Cecil’s marry- 
ing Medhurst ! 


-V 




MR. HAXTOUJSTS DIPLOMACY. 247 


CHAPTER XVI. 

MR. HAXTOUN’S DIPLOMACY. 

T HREE hours later Mr. Haxtoun had in a meas- 
ure regained his mental equilibrium, which 
he had lost when confronted with the spectre 
raised by his wife’s words. For a moment it had 
taken on a shape which was a hideous caricature of 
himself, and he had, with a bewildered sense, recog- 
nized the monomaniac with a fixed idea, wearing 
blinkers which hid everything in the world except 
the spot before his own eyes. But, after dressing 
with unusual haste, breakfasting with what poor 
appetite he might, and smoking his cigar on the 
terrace outside, impressions regained their force ; 
the quick currents of irritation along his nerves of 
sensation subsided. His wife came and addressed 
him with timidity and longing in her glance and 
tone, and, though he still felt an inarticulate and 
smouldering resentment, he answered with right 
royal condescension. She hated to differ with him, 
no matter how just her quarrel might be ; the interest 
and sweetness of life were flatly dispersed unless she 
could feel that he was easy and comfortable. Mr. 
Haxtoun said this, and felt that he must be mag- 
nanimous. There was clearly a right and wrong in 
every subject, and he had never known anybody to 


248 A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 

be in the right who differed from himself. Still, 
women had their little ambitions, their little personal 
inclinations, and a man should not inflict too bitter 
a disappointment upon them. The pretty creatures 
needed to be served when they might be, dominated 
only when they must be. 

Accordingly, after answering his wife’s little 
phrases about the flowers and the gardener’s new 
schemes, he said, averting his eyes a little : — 

“By the way, Jenny, since you wish it, I will 
find out from Medhurst what he has been doing in 
that matter, and if ” — 

“And, if it is as I fear, will you not insist that 
he shall go away, at least for a time ? ” 

Mr. Haxtoun nodded. “ That might be best. 
I will speak ¥ to him, at any rate, and let you know 
what he says.” 

This undertaking did not dismay the old gentle- 
man. He knew his own diplomatic gifts, and that 
he was the shrewdest and most experienced of 
men where any knowledge of character or motives 
was concerned. lie burned, too, with zeal, to re- 
instate himself in his wife’s good opinion, and 
could predict with scientific precision exactly 
what he should have to tell her. He disliked to 
break up his secretary’s morning work ; but routine 
must occasionally give way, and he hoped, by this 
concession, to secure a peaceful life for the future. 

Medhurst was at his desk when Mr. Haxtoun 
entered the study, and .looked up with a salutation. 

“Hard at it!” said the old gentleman. “How 
little those about us know of what is going on 
within these four walls ! The chattering of the 


MR. HAXTOUN'S DIPLOMACY. 249 


parlor seems unimportant enough, looked at from 
our point of view.” 

“ You were so late I began to be afraid you 
might be ill,” said Medhurst, not replying to his 
patron’s remark. 

“I am not well; I am, in fact, more than half 
ill. I was disturbed soon after I awoke, and that 
always does me harm. There is a painful buzz- 
ing in my head, and I feel languid.” 

“It is a warm morning.” 

“ Heat agrees with me,” said Mr. Haxtoun, 
solemnly, and at once took up the subject physio- 
logically. Medhurst could not possibly imagine 
what his employer meant by coming in at that hour 
of the day, planting himself in a chair so close 
to him that their knees almost touched, and at 
once insisting upon conversation. He had two 
passions, — one for his book, and the other for in- 
terminable harangues ; but while in the study it 
was his habit to adhere strictly to the matter in 
hand. But now he was evidently bent on dis- 
course. Medhurst took up his sheets, laid them 
down, picked imaginary straws out of his ink- 
stand, took a new pen, tried it, and exchanged it 
for another. He yawned ; he sighed ; he looked 
out of the window, and affected to be profoundly 
interested in his own thoughts. But Mr. Hax- 
toun’s flow of dissertation never once stopped. 
He at first discussed his health, with the nicest 
and most particular account of the condition of 
his various organs ; and, after proving conclu- 
sively that he had a chronic disease in each, he 
did not refrain from telling with what strength of 


250 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


mind he bore these inevitable ills, and with what 
fortitude he put suffering by, and applied himself 
to his great work. Not, however, that with all 
his absorption in the great question concerning 
the identity of the Aryan epics, he lived an egois- 
tic, isolated existence, cut off from the joys and 
sorrows of his family and his kind. He was no 
mere shadow of his great idea ; he was a whole 
man, heart, mind, sense, all open to beautiful and 
vivid impressions of life. 

“What can he be driving at?” thought Med- 
hurst within himself ; but he listened imperturbably, 
making no attempt to stem the tide of eloquence, 
save by an occasional “ Certainly,” or, “ It would 
seem so.” The young man, as lie sat there, cast 
an occasional glance from the window, and saw 
Cecil on the lawn with Rodne}' Heriot. There 
w r as to be an archery and tennis party the fol- 
lowing day, and they, with Alec, were directing the 
gardener how to lay out the grounds. Medhurst 
was not unused to this sort of spectacle, which 
occasionally made him feel like a school-boy, shut 
out of the sunshin} 7 place where his mates were 
playing ; but, as a rule, he was compelled to be 
rigorously absorbed in the work before him, and 
had no time to indulge in fancies. Now, with his 
faculties quite unemployed, except in pondering 
the problem of Mr. Haxtoun’s unusual mood, he 
allowed his thoughts to settle upon Cecil, and let 
his memory bring up one picture of her after 
another. Comparing his late impressions of her 
with his first, the effect was complicated and in- 
harmonious. She puzzled him, and, let him try 


MR. HAXTOUN'S DIPLOMACY. 251 


as he might to attribute the fluctuations in her be- 
havior to girlish caprice, he could not make that 
account for all he had seen in her face, in the swift 
withdrawing -of her eyes, in the unaccountable 
changes of color. 

Remembering certain of her speeches he was 
ready to accuse her of coquetry, and at the recur- 
rence of this idea something hard and bitter came 
into his mind against her. The thought touched 
him to the quick, and he experienced a rancor, 
which showed that, in spite of the philosophy and 
indifference with which he tried to accept the acci- 
dents of his life, he was, in point of fact, just as 
youthful, susceptible, and suspicious as ever, and 
at the mercy of every adverse wind which might 
chance to blow. To exchange this notion of Cecil’s 
coquetry for another, namely, that she might feel 
some particular interest in him, — pity, sympathy, 
what not, — was equally disturbing. 

By this time Mr. Haxtoun began to think that he 
had said enough in the way of preamble, and that his 
various digressions had taken a sufficient range to 
allow him to slip with ease into almost any fresh 
channel. 

“ And how is it with you, my 3 'oung friend?” he 
now proceeded to ask ; “ what is your outlook upon 
life ? ” 

“ Eh, what? ” faltered Medhurst, brought back to 
present realities by the subsidence of the continuous 
droning murmur, and the inflection of the final 
sentence, which seemed to denote that a question 
had been asked. “ I beg your pardon, — I did not 
quite catch your last sentence.” 


252 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ I was inquiring,” resumed Mr. Haxtoun, “ how 
you regarded these things ; what was your estimate 
of the future ; what you were eager to lift the veil 
for, and find behind it?” 

“I assure you,” said Medhurst, dryly, “that I 
have no outlook, — none. As for lifting the veil 
of the future I much prefer to know nothing of what 
lurks behind it. Having caught sight of the skele- 
ton I might be less easy in my mind than I am 
now.” 

“ You do not think of marriage?” 

“ Marriage ! ” exclaimed Medhurst, angrily. He 
looked at Mr. Haxtoun, and began to believe there 
was something in all this more than met the ear. 
“Whom should I marry?” 

Mr. Haxtoun had been gentle, vague, and diffuse, 
and to have what he liked to have spread over a 
large extent of territory, all at once centred and 
brought to a point in this wa}^, was almost irritating. 
Medhurst had fairly turned upon him as if goaded 
and stung. “ Whom should I marry? ” he went on, 
pressing the point ; but then, seeing the dismay ex- 
pressed in the old gentleman’s face, he governed his 
sudden rage. “I would tell you,” he now said, 
with a half-laugh, “ if I thought of such a thing. 
You have bought my time, my services, my brain, 
and I really consider that if my heart were engaged 
elsewhere it would be only fair to let you know.” 

“ There may be something in that,” observed 
Mr. Haxtoun. “Head and heart could not well be 
at war with advantage to the work.” 

41 No.” Both seemed to feel a certain embarrass- 
ment. Some of those useful meaningless phrases 


MR. HAXTOUN'S DIPLOMACY. 253 


with which a man covers his purpose, as a fox 
brushes over his tracks with his tail, rose to Mr. 
Haxtouu’s lips. He wanted to carry it off with a 
little jocularity, and show the young man that it 
was a mere passing joke ; but something about 
Medhurst, sombre and serious, almost frightened 
him. He looked at him uncomfortably, and said 
not a word. 

“May I inquire if you had any special meaning 
in putting that question to me? ” Medhurst asked, 
after a time. 

He hardly knew why his heart was beating 
strongly, why a stern, angry bitterness seemed to 
actuate him. He thought it was because he re- 
sented the intrusiveness of this question as if it had 
been an impertinence. But then, he reflected, Mr. 
Haxtoun had always been kind and friendly, and 
had in every way made him feel that he never 
wished to be either inquisitive or dictatorial. 

“You seem to take it as if I had introduced some 
searching and powerful question,” Mr. Haxtoun now 
rallied his powers sufficiently to make reply. “ Had 
you not been thinking of marriage you would 
hardly make a grievance of my allusion to it. All 
men marry, so to speak. And it is more than a 
little singular that we are inclined to treat the one 
vital fact of existence, which has made tradition 
and history, inspired the poets, created literature, 
as if it were a trivial incident in our own cases to 
pooh-pooh, and smile away. I might cite many 
authorities to prove” — 

“ Let me tell you,” said Medhurst, “ as man to 
man, that I have been thinking about marriage of 


254 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


late ; that is, whether under a certain combination 
of circumstances a man should feel it his duty to 
offer marriage ; whether it is cowardice to run 
away from it.” 

“Run away from it?” repeated Mr. Haxtoun, 
blankl}\ 

“ Precisely. I don’t in the faintest degree believe 
that I am worth any woman’s acceptance ; but my 
doubt is, whether I ought not to offer her the chance 
of refusing me.” 

Mr. Haxtoun began to feel very ill. His head 
swam, and he leaned it back against the cushion 
of his chair. There was a little pallor about his 
lips as he observed, “ You seem to be in a singular 
dilemma.” 

There was something very strange and very dis- 
quieting to Medhurst in this remark. He took it for 
granted that Mr. Haxtoun was alluding to Mrs. 
Dalton, and his wonder grew as to the means by 
which this unobservant old gentleman had become 
acquainted with his state of mind. 

“ I confess,” said he, “ that I have not usually 
taken the subject close to heart. When I am with 
her I occasionally ask myself what I mean ; but 
when I am away from her I see clearly enough 
that what she means is something quite different 
from binding herself down to a poor man. Hon- 
estly, Mr. Haxtoun, I feel this. I am one of 
those unlucky devils who had better throw himself 
into the sea than to think of marrying any woman.” 
Medhurst spoke with some heat, and seemed chafed 
by some internal conflict of feeling. But there was 


MR. HAXTOUN' S DIPLOMACY. 255 


not the least glimmering sign of love or sentiment 
in his face, or in his voice. 

44 You see, Mr. Haxtoun,” he now added, 44 that 
I understand your allusion. How you gained any 
idea of what I had supposed was entirely my own 
secret I will not ask. If this hint of yours had 
come from any one else I should have considered it 
intrusive ; but I owe it to you to be candid. If } 7 ou 
have an} r wish, even any commands, in the matter, 
let me know them, and I will try to carry them out. 
I begin to see what it all means. I spoke to your 
daughter, — that is — she had heard something, and 
questioned me; and Miss Haxtoun, no doubt, told 
her mother, and she ” — 

Mr. Haxtoun’s jaw had fallen. He gazed at 
Medhurst, stricken dumb. 

44 If,” continued Medhurst, with a half-laugh, 
44 you want me to end the matter by going over and 
asking her this moment, whether she will or will 
not marry me, I will do just what you say. To doubt 
the situation is annoying to lookers-on. If she 
accepts me I will go away ; I shall need to make 
new plans at once. If she refuses me — as I have 
not the smallest doubt she will — we can go on with 
the book without interruptions.” 

44 Go over to see her,-— go over where? ” gasped 
Mr. Haxtoun. 

44 1 suppose she is at Mrs. EstAs.” 

44 Are you alluding to Mrs. Dalton? ” 

44 1 am.” 

Mr. Haxtoun revived ; that is, he experienced an 
almost intoxicating sense of relief, which quite over- 
came him. He started up, nervous and unstrung, tit- 


256 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


tering faintly. He was too happy to care particu- 
larly about the vista his hints might have opened up 
to Medhurst, if he saw fit to study their meaning. 
There was something inspiring to the old gentle- 
man in the fact that, on the unique occasion when 
his wife had chosen to assert herself, she was utterly 
in the wrong. Under the sway of maternal instinct 
everything in creation is over-bold and aggressive, 
and Mrs. Haxtoun might be pardoned for such an 
exuberance of apprehensiveness. By forcing her 
husband to take the initiative against Medhurst’s 
pretensions she had entangled him in a delicate 
dilemma ; but he was ready to forgive her. A mo 
nomaniac, with a fixed idea,” the old gentleman 
chuckled to himself. “ Blinkers which let a person 
see only one spot in the world.” He burned with 
impatience to look up his wife, and prove to her, by 
these incontestable^onfessions, that Medhurst was 
on the point of offering himself to Mrs. Dalton ; 
that, so far from being in love with Cecil, he had 
never once thought of her, but had been enduring a 
conflict of ideas about the widow, and, tossed about 
aud torn by contrary instincts, had been almost glad 
of some outside pressure, which should force him 
into action. 

But before Mr. Haxtoun could rush into his 
wife’s presence, and reinstate himself in her belief 
as a far-seeing and deep-reaching observer, it was 
essential to say something to Medhurst, who was 
regarding his dead silence with some surprise. 

“ My dear young friend,” said he, “your words 
tell me a story, — a story which touches me deeply. 
But do not act rashly. What you suggest is a mat- 


MR. HAXTOUN'S DIPLOMACY. 257 


ter requiring serious thought ; your feeling of haste 
cornea from your pride, which is rather exaggerated. 
By all means, wait and see, — wait and see.” 

Medhurst stared at him, frankly puzzled. He 
began to wonder how his confession had been 
brought about, and was obliged to own that he 
had committed himself without due provocation. 
But the allusion to marriage had been so sudden, 
so uncalled for, it had roused all his slumbering 
doubts, dreads, and irritations. Many a time of late, 
while talking to Fanny Dalton, he had called himself 
either a knave or a sickly sentimentalist, and had 
impugned both his sense and his honor for letting 
the flirtation, if so it might be called, drift on. 
There had seemed to be a swiftly piercing intention 
in Mr. Haxtoun’s manner, at least, and Medhurst 
had given him credit for extraordinarj^ subtlety. 
After a moment’s supreme hesitation, as to whether 
it was worth while to try to make the matter clearer, 
Medhurst decided to, at least, postpone all further 
allusion to his personal affairs. He rose. 

“ Since we seem to have taken a holiday,” he now 
said, “if you have nothing on hand at present I 
think I will go out for a walk.” 

“ Do so, do so, by all means,” returned Mr. 
Haxtoun,. who was eager to end the interview. 

Medhurst was off* like lightning, and the old gen- 
tleman, on his side, sought his wife with feet which 
hardly seemed to touch the earth. 


258 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 

M RS. DALTON was expending a good deal of 
time and earnestness upon the private theat- 
ricals. She had many reasons for feeling a keener 
interest in them than others, for she had more at 
stake. She was in the habit of talking a good 
deal en Vair, as one might say, and floated a 
great many balloons, to which she gave only a 
moment’s lease of life. Her idea, however, of 
going on the stage was borne up by a lively 
personal ambition, considerable aptitude, and the 
necessity^ in some way of gaining wealth for 
herself. She never read an item in the papers 
concerning the almost fabulous amounts made by 
certain successful actresses and singers of the 
period, without a spasm of envy and longing 
contracting her heart. She, too, longed to have the 
public at her feet ; she had always enjoyed the 
feeling that she had spectators when she merely 
crossed the room ; and to have not o^y an ad- 
miring, but a remunerative, audience, — to have the 
effect of her wit, grace, and good looks, paid 
down every night in gold and bank-bills, — that 
represented for her the acme of profitable exist- 
ence. The only drawback was the fact that she 
had not begun young enough, and that the life of 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN . 


259 


an actress would demand incessant energy and 
hard work. She was, besides, uncertain whether 
she had it in her to create a part. She could 
follow, she could imitate, most successfully ; but 
originality is the true force. 

Thus Rodney Heriot’s play had given her far 
more trouble than if it were one which had 
already been acted, and concerning which there were 
traditions. He gave her the advantage of his 
own views, however ; he read the play to her, and 
heard her read it. He took the trouble even to go 
through certain scenes with her. The manager 
was to come shortly, and*, after his arrival, regu- 
lar rehearsals would be held twice a day on the 
stage. The scene-painting had by this time 
progressed to a point which showed that Rodney 
was prompt in performance, at least ; and to-day 
he brought Medhurst in to show him what sort of 
effects he had produced. He happened to come 
upon the secretary while he w r as idling away his 
day in the woods. The truth was that Medhurst, 
after his interview with Mr. Haxtoun in the pre- 
ceding chapter, had found his morning spoiled 
even for a walk, and Rodney had brought him 
along without much compulsion. The stage had 
been erected in a sort of alcove of the picture- 
gallery, ’vyhere the water-colors usually hung, and 
the whole main room was to become the auditorium. 

“Now stand there,” said Rodney, as they 
entered, “ and I will have the first three scenes 
displayed. If they can bear this mid-day glare 
they will pass by lamplight.” 

While the two stood at the door the swish of 


260 A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 

a long train was heard upon the stage, and Mrs. 
Dalton came down from the left wing, speaking 
in a ■'low, but clear, tone ; in fact, rehearsing her 
part. 

u Well, well,” she said, “ and how shall I re- 
ceive him? There is so much in the first impres- 
sion ; let the heart first give a push either way, 
towards love or disgust, and half the battle is 
fought. Shall I sit? No; I would rather be 
moving. I will walk ; yes, that shall be it. I’ll 
walk away from the door of the conservatory 
as he enters, and then turn back and meet him. 
No, that might be too abrupt. I will be neither 
sitting, standing, nor walking ; I will be lying down ; 
I will stretch myself almost at full length on the 
crimson couch, with the cushions behind my head. 
No, I will not be quite lying down, — I will be 
lifting myself on one elbow, and one foot shall be 
dangling, for these are my prettiest slippers and 
stockings. Yes, one foot shall show, like that, — 
not too much, not boldly, but delicately, — and then 
I will start and be surprised. Oh, the surprise will 
be easy to manage, jumping up with the conscious- 
ness that I was caught in such a way ! Yes, that 
is best.” 

Rodney roared with laughter, and then clapped 
his hands. 

“ Bravo ! bravo ! ” he cried; “nothing could be 
better, Fanny.” 

“ Oh, are you there? ” said Mrs. Dalton. “ And 
you, too, Cousin Frank? Did it really sound 
well?” 

“Nothing could be better. It seemed as if we 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 


261 

had stumbled iu upon one of your own private 
meditations.” 

tk No, I assure you, I never have to try one thing 
after the other. My instinct is unerring.” 

“You always knew just how to strike home. I 
brought Medhurst in to look at the scenery. Here, 
John, just put up that first scene, — the garden and 
terrace, and house behind.” 

Fanny gave a little jump from the stage and 
joined the two on the floor, — she could do such 
things bewitchingly, — while the servant wheeled the 
various canvasses on and off, showing first the 
terrace of Mrs. Chalcote’s house, then the parlor, 
and next a view of the park where the archery 
party was to be held. They were fairly painted, it 
seemed to Medhurst. 

“ I don’t know what there is you can’t do, 
lleriot,” he exclaimed. 

“ Do? I can’t do anything decently.” 

“ You have written a clever play.” 

“Written it? It is a rehash of Sardou, Robert- 
son, Scribe, and Congreve. There is hardly an 
original word in it.” 

“ It is cleverly adapted, at all events. And you 
certainly painted these scenes.” 

“But from copies. .That wood is a view of a 
little nook in Fontainebleau forest, and the terrace 
is our own, — you noticed that?” 

“ It did not occur to me.” 

“ You see, then, what my skill amounts to.” 

“ I don’t know how Cousin Frank should have 
any idea of the terrace,” said Mrs. Dalton. “He 
never comes near the house.” 


262 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“He will have to do so when the rehearsals 
begin.” 

“ Do you mean to say you still count on me to 
take that part ? ” 

“ Certainly I do. Nobody else is available.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Medhurst ; “lam not cer- 
tain whether I ought to or not. Don’t fancy that I 
am making myself of undue importance ; but reflect 
that my time is not my own.” 

“ Fiddlesticks ! ” said Rodney. “I’ll put it in the 
right light with Mr. and Mrs. Haxtoun, if you mean 
that.” 

“I” — Medhurst began. 

“ Don’t say anothef word. I will go and put on 
my blouse and paint a little. You can entertain 
him, Fanny. He will stay to dinner.” 

Medhurst felt the pleasantness of this easy fash- 
ion of hospitality. He was disinclined to go back 
to the three -o’ clock meal at the Ilaxtouns*, and 
yielded to Rodney’s suggestion with a good grace. 
It was dim here and cool ; he was sitting on a deeply 
cushioned sofa, and was disinclined to move. 
Rodney had quickly slipped into a suit of dark- 
blue velveteen, and, mounted on a high stool, was 
sketching, with plenty of boldness, the bank of a 
river, humming all the time a pretty air set to an 
old madrigal. 

“ He is a wonderful fellow,” Medhurst said to 
Fanny; “ with a little touch of something or other 
one need not undertake to define, he would have 
genius.’ 

“ He has got it already. He has never had to use 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 


263 


his powers,” said Fanny. “ It is a lucky thing for 
the world that most of us clever people are poor.” 

“Don’t count me in,” said Medhurst. “I have 
always considered that I might have been something 
if I had not been driven to earn my daily bread. 
When I have five thousand dollars ahead I shall be 
able to breathe. I can then, perhaps, decide whether 
I will return to my early notion of studying law. I 
may think best to do it, and may not.” 

Fanny looked at him lazily. * 

“ Have you anything like five thousand dollars?” 

“ Yes. If I stay here six months longer I shall 
have it made up. My book may help a little.” 

“You have saved money?” 

“ All I could.” 

Having said this Medhurst waited for her to re- 
ply. He had decided to tell her so much. He owed 
it to her, perhaps, to let her know whatever thoughts 
or expectations he had concerning his future. 

“ How little that would amount to in this house ! ” 
Fanny exclaimed. “ They are so awfully, so abomi- 
nably rich here. Five thousand dollars seems to me 
a mere bagatelle just at present, when I am used to 
writing Mrs. Est6’s orders to her milliners in Paris.” 

“ This sort of life was your beau ideal , Fanny? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

Medhurst made a gesture towards Rodney, who 
was trolling out, — 

“ Since first I saw your face, I resolved 
To honor and renown you.” 

“ He is the man you ought to have captivated.” 


2G4 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


44 And do you consider him so very indifferent to 
me? ” Fanny demanded, with an air of pique. 

“ Certainly not. But, considering that he is on the 
point of being engaged, if not already engaged” — 

44 Don’t you do some slight violence to your own 
feelings in making that statement?” she demanded, 
with a peculiar smile. 

44 Violence to my own feelings? I do not know 
what you mean.” 

44 1 cannot- believe that you are absolutely indif- 
ferent to that pretty young creature.” 

The color came and went in Medhurst’s face. 

44 Do not — do not, I beg of 3 T ou ! ” he exclaimed, 
with a vehemence that surprised himself. 

She was watching him closely, and at his entreaty 
a little trembling flitted across her features, which 
she seemed unable to control. She steadied her- 
self, however, and it passed away. 

“The girl is in love with you,” she said, speak- 
ing in the softest possible voice, her eyes almost 
hidden beneath their half-closed lids. “I saw it 
from the first. You have but to put out your hand, 
and 3 ’ou could draw her to you.” 

Medhurst grew frightfully pale. He made an 
effort to speak, but no sound came from his lips. 
His hat had fallen to the floor, and he stooped 
and picked it up, then rose to his feet. 

44 You are not going,” said Fanny ; 44 you agreed 
to stay.” 

He seemed irresolute, and sat down again. 

44 Have I done wrong in telling you this? ” asked 
Fanny, leaning forward and speaking earnestly. 
“If so, I ask your forgiveness ; I am ready to ask 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 


265 


your forgiveness on my knees. But, after seeing 
what I have seen, knowing what I know, how 
could I keep silence ? And, believe me, — after — 
after all I made you suffer, it was a sort of consola- 
tion to me to think of you as loving, and beloved by, 
a fresh young heart.” 

“ There is nothing of the kind,” declared Med- 
hurst. “ I cannot understand your allusions.” 

He looked dangerous. The harness Fanny had 
thrown over him did not fit him at all. The bit was 
in his mouth, however ; and, let him stamp, froth, and 
make play as he would, she knew that he could not 
free himself. She had not known how he would 
take it, but she had hardly expected all this fire 
and revolt. Some struggle was going on within 
him which she could not measure except by these 
signs of wrath. All was uncertainty and confusion 
in his thoughts, she could see that. 

44 I saw a change in you at first,” said Fanny. 44 I 
watched a little. 4 Is he in love with that young 
girl ? ’ I asked myself. I saw soon enough how it 
was with her. She loves you, — I tell you she loves 
you with all her foolish, fond, little heart.” 

He was trembling. 

44 If,” said he, in a faint voice, 44 if I thought that, 
it would be my duty to go away, — to go away 
instantly.” 

Fann} T looked at him incredulously. 

44 Are you as half-hearted as that?” she cried, 
with a swift, piercing intonation. 44 1 should have 
believed you capable of being a good lover, at all 
events.” 

44 Whatever I am, I am, I hope, incapable of 


266 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


dishonor, and I should feel a stinging sense of 
treachery in going on hero with that idea in my 
mind.” 

Fanny had miscalculated a little. She had wished 
to throw a firebrand, but had not supposed it likely 
to alight in a powder magazine. 

“Do not punish me in this way,” she now ex- 
claimed, with no exaggerated terror depicted on her 
face. “ I thought — I thought I might be doing you 
a service.” 

“If she were free as air,” said Medhurst, “I 
should have no right to think of her ; and now — 
Why,” he added, looking at Rodney, who, standing 
on his stool, was brandishing his crayon, and shout- 
ing : — 

“ ‘ If now I be disdained, I wish 
My heart had never known you * ” — 

— “ he is in love with her.” 

Fannj r felt with annoyance and confusion that she 
had put forces in action of which she had not 
dreamed. All this fine feeling seemed to her to 
spring from no inadequate causes. The sort of 
friendship Medhurst seemed to entertain for Rod- 
ney had not entered into her calculations at all. 

“1 wish,” she said, with some emotion, “that I 
had not spoken. But old and dear friends as we 
are ” — 

“ Look here, Fanny ! ” said Medhurst. “ You do 
not understand me. When, a little while ago, I 
spoke of my future, — of my beginning to make an 
actual career for myself, — I thought of you and of 
you alone.” 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 


267 


“ I did not know you ever thought of me in these 
days,” said Fanny. 

“ But you see I do.” 

“ You have almost avoided me.” 

“ Intercourse between us means too much or too 
little. I felt that 1 had no right to see you, to make 
allusions to our past and to my own feelings in that 
past, without some definite speech and promise 
about the future. I ” — 

“ Do not go on,” cried Fanny. “I do not know 
what you feel precisely, nor do I wish to know — 
just yet. I like to see you — to talk to you freely. 
Don’t feel that there is any necessity for even think- 
ing about the future.” She was leaning close to 
him, with a bright, friendly face, a charming brill- 
iancy in her eyes, and a gay, caressing smile on her 
lips. “ Forget all that I said,” she whispered. 
“ Don’t dream of anj T necessity for going away.” 

He said nothing. She sprang up.' 

u Now,” she exclaimed, “ I’ll say my part to you. 
I am not perfect yet. There is time to go through 
one scene. You read that, please, — or at least 
give me the cues.” 

She walked about ten feet away, and began one 
of the monologues in which her part abounded. He 
was struck by the sort of electrical and involuntary 
force which came into her voice, look, and gesture, 
as she moved up and down. As for himself it was 
difficult to keep his attention fixed upon the little 
strip of paper in his hand and attend to the role he 
had assumed. The dialogue was between Mrs. 
Chalcote and Henri, whose part was to be taken by 
Alec Haxtoun. Probably no scene in the play would 


268 


A MIDSUMMER MAtWESS. 


afford Fanny a better chance for the display of her 
peculiar powers than this. Henri had become sus- 
picious and restless ; he began to see that he had 
rivals, and pressed upon A del a the necessity of 
putting an end to his suspense, and making it either 
happiness or despair. His accusations she met with 
a volley of sparkling impertinences. 

44 What! I am not to have as many lovers as 1 
choose? Treat them as I choose? Amuse myself 
at them, or with them, as I choose?” 

Medhurst could hardly read the part assigned him- 
lie did not know of what or whom he was think- 
ing. It was not of Fanny ; her arch, coquettish 
looks, her incessant laughter, irritated and troubled 
him. Her words seemed an echo of something 
once realized, but half-forgotten ; there was a pain- 
ful violence to his feelings in trying to go through 
Henri’s answers. The effect became more and more 
hideous all the time that Fanny was increasing in 
mischief, in spirit, in abandon. She paused sud- 
denly, and burst into ringing laughter. 

44 You don’t seem to enjoy it,” she said. 

44 The thing is quite out of my line. I have no 
dramatic talent now.” 

“You excel in love-making when you feel the 
emotion,” she said, in a soft, coquettish whisper. 

He flung down the paper he held. He began to 
believe that she was trying to torment him, and re- 
solved to hold his own against either her malice or 
her fascinations. 

She accepted his decision that they had had enough 
of the rehearsal, and, in fact, a servant came to 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 


269 


announce that dinner would be upon the table in 
ten minutes. 

Rodney clambered down from his stool, and asked 
Medhurst to go upstairs with bim- 

When they descended Mrs. Dalton was in Mrs. 
Este’s boudoir, and they all moved in to dinner to- 
gether. 

The meal was so simple that Mrs. Est6 almost 
apologized to Medhurst. They kept a French cook, 
at a great salary, for nothing, she affirmed. Rod- 
ney ate little, and Fanny Dalton almost lived upon 
cream ; while, as for herself, she took nothing save 
bouillon and juicy beef. 

“ And, in Europe, Rodney used to begin with ca- 
viare and olives stuffed with anchovies/’ she explained 
plaintively. 

“ Don’t omit absinthe,” put in Rodney. “ Make 
me out as bad as you can. But reflect, Medhurst, 
that in those happy days I did not dine — if you 
call such a thing as this dining — at three o’clock in 
the day.” 

“ It does not sound polite,” said Fanny, u but a 
dinner at three o’clock does not seem to belong to 
this house.” 

But then,” said Mrs. Est6, “ when I was here 
all alone I never used actually to dine, and to have 
a simple meal at seven o’clock, with the chandelier 
lighted, and the men standing about, was dreary and 
absurd. When Rodney came I was ready to make 
any changes, but he insisted on going on in the old 
way. People about us do it, and it is inconvenient 
to vary from the accepted hours of the neighbor- 
hood.” 


270 A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ You see I am a reformed sinner,” observed 
Rodney; “and reformed sinners have to become 
puritans in order to impress people with the fact of 
their penitence. Prince Henry had to cut all his old- 
est and dearest friends in order to get up his credit ; 
but I had only to take to early hours, mutton-chops 
and potatoes, and a veil was drawn at once over my 
peccadilloes.” 

“ How grateful I ought to be that you did not 
give me up ! ” said Fanny. “ Had you virtuously 
said, 4 1 know you not, old man ; fall to your 
prayers,’ I should not have been the fortunate per- 
son I am at present.” 

Medhurst heard the voices buzzing around him 
with no clear idea of what anybody was saying. 
Rodney began to talk about the novel, “Bettering 
Opportunity ” ; but no effort could make the thing 
seem definite and real to his own mind. Rodney had 
read the book and liked it, and Mrs. Est6 dis- 
coursed about the hero with little shrieks of admira- 
tion : — 

“ A genuine man ! Made of actual flesh and 
blood ! What an intellect ! What a heart ! And so 
revolted by the dishonesty, the insincerity, the want 
of spirituality, in the life about him !” 

“I don’t know whether I like the book or not,” 
said Fanny. “ I was all the time looking for your 
own traits, Frank ; the incidents in your own life. 
When you moralized, I said, 4 Now he means this or 
that.’ ” 

“ I expected to hear you say, 4 Now he means 
me ! ’ ” said Rodney, and they both laughed. Med- 
hurst smiled indifferently. He could not throw off 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 271 

his reserve, and felt, when addressed, as if encased 
in a triple suit of armor, which left him no 
freedom; but the others did not seem to find his 
mood out of the usual. Rodney was in high spirits, 
and Fanny Dalton was both radiant and gay. 
An incessant play of wit and badinage went on 
between the two, in which Mrs. Est6 joined, and 
tried to carry the guest along with her. But the 
conversation was made up of that sort of coterie 
talk, which, with its perpetual allusions and its half- 
said things, leaves an outsider absolutely dull and 
helpless. It was Medhurst’s first actual perception 
of the intimacy which existed between Rodney Ileriot 
and Mrs. Dalton. He had known, in an indefinite 
way, that they were old friends; but now he dis- 
covered that, even during her married life, Fanny 
had, summer after summer, gone abroad with Mrs. 
Este, and met Rodney when he joined his mother at 
her Italian villa. The two had been associated in 
all sorts of ideas and enterprises, and seemed to 
have so much in common that a new significance 
was suddenly put into the free and easy intercourse 
for the looker-on. There was hardly a limit to 
Fanny’s coquetry, and when it seemed slightly to 
overstep the boundary she would say, with a laugh 
and a glance at Mrs. Est6, “ When a man is in love 
with another woman it makes no difference what 
one says to him.” 

“ I wouldn’t waste my ammunition on him, then 
Mrs. Est6 remarked once, with her little, petulant 
air. 

‘ 4 1 will not,” Fanny replied, with a shrug. 4 4 It 
is absolutely a shame he should care nothing about 


272 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


me. Still, yon must confess that it keeps him in 
good humor, and teaches him how to behave his 
best when he really has to serve on his knees, 
so ” — 

“ I will go down on my knees to you this moment, 
Fanny, if you say so,” said Rodney. 

They were rising from table, and went out on the 
porch to take their coffee. It was by this time 
almost five o’clock, and the long shadows had crept 
across the terraces and lawn, and the water below 
was dark and rayless. Where Medhurst sat he 
could see the filmy reaches of the upper river, 
which took the sunlight and vanished into a silvery 
haze. Mrs. Este drank her coffee, and then went to 
sleep in her redining-chair ; the three others settled 
into quiet, and when conversation began again it 
was Medhurst who started it. He had it all to him- 
self, however, for the ten minutes he tried to keep 
it up, and he began to believe that he had become 
as prolix and as monotonous as Mr. Haxtoun him- 
self. Rodney listened to him with a bright eye and 
an occasional word, but his thoughts were evidently 
elsewhere, and Medhurst sat upon thorns until he 
found a chance to abandon his subject. Mrs. Dal- 
ton made a lovely picture, in her white dress, under 
the red awnings ; but she had exerted herself quite 
enough for the present, and no effort could elicit 
more than a lazy smile from her. 

“ Would it bore you if I played in the distance?” 
Rodney asked presently, in a sleepy voice ; and at 
Medhurst’ s word he went off to the library. 

u Make yourself comfortable, Frank,” said Fanny, 
good-naturedly. “ Loll, put your feet up, and your 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 


273 


hands in your pockets, if you choose. One hates to 
have a dull hour and a stiff hour at the same time.” 

Rodney had taken his violin. He began to play 
softly and pensively, with an air of reverie, through 
which stray fancies whispered, giving a suggestion 
of immense sweetness. It was dreamy, melodious, 
and tender, but he soon tired of it. “ Fanny,” his 
voice was heard calling, “ come and try a sonata 
with me.” 

Fanny rose, with a little grimace, raising her eye- 
brows and shrugging her shoulders as she passed 
Medhurst. He was left alone, for Mrs. EshS’s maid 
had come out and wheeled in the sleeping old lady 
out of reach of the river-breeze. He was glad to be 
alone. He seemed for the past two hours to have 
been in a state of suspended animation. He had 
not been able to think connectedly nor to speak with 
what seemed to him intelligence or comprehension. 
He had made a vigorous effort to reject the idea 
Fanny had offered, but it was not so easily dispelled. 
In fact, his whole consciousness had been invaded 
by it on the instant ; and to run awa}' from it, to 
deny it, to refuse it, did not in the least alter the 
fact that it was the very kernel of his present sen- 
sation, thought, and life. Everything else was far 
off. There was a joyous violence in the way old 
and indefinite impressions suddenly grew vivid ; 
meeting, separating, mingling together. At least 
he must examine the idea, and determine its logical 
value, and its bearing upon his duty. Rut the fact 
was, that his mind was at present like a hitherto 
undiscovered countiy, in which he had a half right 
to some rich inheritance, unmapped, without barriers, 


274 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


boundaries, roads, or sign-posts ; inviting, but at 
the same time denying his claims ; tantalizing him 
with a promise of possession, to which he felt 
morally certain in his own mind he had neither 
birthright nor title-deeds. He was just in the mood 
to hear music. It opened instantaneously the 
heights, depths, and far perspectives which he could 
not realize with his unaided imagination. But the 
strains served, nevertheless, as an invocation to 
spirits he might not find it easy again to dismiss. 
Fanny was carrying along a theme of Beethoven’s 
upon the piano, while Rodney adorned it with fan- 
tastic little caprices, delicate turns, blissful sugges- 
tions, wild, delicate impulses ; then, when joy had 
moved it to its fullest, the violin in turn took up the 
story, and told it in its own way. What had been 
pure joy became the burden of a heart ravished 
with its own happiness ; a happiness it longs for, 
craves, but cannot claim. The last two or three 
hours’ experience had swept away all Medhurst’s 
former world of ideas. That morning he had 
believed he was in some measure bound to Fanny, 
while Heriot thought only of Miss Haxtoun. Nei- 
ther of these beliefs remained to him now as an 
essential base of action. Heriot and Fanny were 
wrapped up in each other. Let them go ; he wanted 
to be alone in the world with Cecil. 

Suddenly a pertinacious idea arose in his mind. 
He recalled Mr. Haxtoun’s talk with him a few 
hours before ; at the time he had been so oppressed 
by the fancy that other people were bent on recalling 
him to his old vows to Fanny, that he had not once 
reflected upon the probabilities of the matter. He 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 275 

saw it clearly now. Mr. Ilaxtonn had not thought 
of Mrs. Dalton at all ; what his mind had been busy 
with was the question of his secretary’s relations to 
his daughter. Medhurst felt that, in fortifying 
himself boldly against the attack from an entirely 
different quarter, he had considerably disconcerted 
the old gentleman, who had at once shifted his 
ground and retreated in good. order. There was an 
encircling mystery, not without some charm, which 
enticed and fascinated, while it tantalized. Through 
all Medhurst’s moods ran the fibre of his proud, 
stubborn character and temperament ; but he was 
powerfully moved, nevertheless. His thoughts 
shifted and alternated. He dreamed of standing 
alone in the garden with Cecil. Her hand was in 
his, her eyes raised ; but at the same time he was 
saying to himself that it could not, should not, be. 
Yet baffled, driven back, defeated, the sweet, im- 
perious yearning recoiled only to readvance on a 
new line. His own readiness to believe that he was 
capable only of a course purely honorable enabled 
him to coquet a little with the dangerous idea. 
Fanny Dalton had said he had only to stretch out 
his hand to the 3 'oung girl and he might draw her to 
him ; he seemed to know the look she would give 
him, — a look of complete surrender, that gladly 
pledged her life away. And all the time the 
troubled, passionate andante spoke to his very soul ; 
it was a jevelation of what his life might be, if 
what was sweetest, deepest, and holiest came to 
pass, leading him to an earthly paradise ; it told 
him, too, of loss, pain, separation ; it showed him 


276 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


the abyss into which he should be flung if he 
allowed himself to be led to an earthly hell. 

His thoughts wandered aimlessly about : he re- 
membered everything. His father, of whom he 
rarely thought, suddenly came to his mind-, lying on 
the pillow, dying, pressing his little son’s hand and 
saying, 44 I should be afraid to leave you alone in the 
world, my dear, did I not feel that you loved truth 
and honor for their own sake.” Medhurst wondered 
why he should all at once have remembered this. 
If he had hitherto loved truth and honor it must 
have been for their own sake, and apart from exter- 
nal inducements. He had never been bribed before 
to give them up. He sat upright ; he seemed to 
have been asleep and dreaming. The music stopped 
momentarily ; the day had declined ; the air was 
cooler. 

44 Are you asleep? ” called Rodney. 

41 Yes; and dreaming, — delicious nightmare 
dreams. I must go home.” 

44 No ; not yet.” 

They went on playing. Medhurst felt calmer, he 
thought. He saw the utter falsity and futility^ of 
any chimera which promised him happiness. He 
might be tempted ; he was more liable to tempta- 
tion than other men, because he had denied himself 
everything ; but he knew his own power of resist- 
ance, and he liked to feel at times the giant dreams 
his imagination brought him. He was so conscious 
of the poverty of his own life, without ties, associa- 
tions, or actual duties, every circumstance of which 
seemed to him accidental and trivial. He had 
rebelled so perpetually against his lonely, egoistic 


A SONATA BY BEETHOVEN. 


277 


existence, the spending of what poor powers he 
possessed upon his ignoble necessities. It had been 
borne in upon his mind so unceasingly, that, besides 
having no career, he had no affiliation with that 
great human brotherhood which endures, suffers, 
dies, for home, for country, for religion’s sake. 
Yet he knew his own strength, and had experienced 
a fierce, if impotent, craving to be or do something 
in the state or world. 

Great sobs of lamentation came from the violin 
inside ; it was as if Rodney, too, felt the pressure of 
this immense world-sorrow. * But no, Rodney had 
no such grief. A mere brilliant epicurean like him 
could find enough of enjoyment in life. This fresh, 
girlish being, simple, true, and tender, who loved 
himself, Medhurst felt was necessary to him. He 
felt for a moment absolutely free from any fetters of 
self- incrimination. He needed this impulse ; he needed 
this divine source of joy and comfort. A cold- 
blooded creature a man must be who would think of 
scruples with such a glimpse of heaven before him. 

At this moment Medhurst looked up. Cecil 
herself was advancing along the terrace. He had 
been thinking of her as a spur to his ambition, as a 
bribe to his energy. He knew in this instant that 
what he cared about was the rosy oval of this girlish 
face ; the beautiful outlines of the shoulders and 
throat ; the turn of her wrist and hand ; the charm 
of her eyes and smile. He stood up and bowed as 
she ascended the steps, and she made a sweeping 
courtesy, and then stood looking at him with a little, 
tremulous air of interrogation. He felt her beauty, 
her patrician air, the very daintiness and perfection 


278 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


of her fresh toilet, like lashes, which stung him to 
the quick. Not one of her beauties escaped his 
observation, and at each one he called himself 
names. He had been sitting here, dreaming about 
her, when he ought to have been fleeing from the 
temptress. She seemed to him dangerous ; he did 
not blame her ; she did not know what monster folly 
he was capable of. His love had come about with- 
out his will, but he could save himself from it. It 
was not as if he did not know that his love would 
ruiu her if she accepted it ; deepening her experiences 
into the same terrible realism of poverty and failure 
he was doomed to. He could save her from that, — 
he could save her from any foolish, girlish fancy 
which might be governing her. He need not torture 
himself with questions ; he need not wonder what 
event might be coming to pass. Nothing should 
happen except that this pretty, tender, spoiled 
creature should be safe and happy. 

He smiled at her as at a child half-frightened. 

“ Go into the library,” said he. “ Is not the 
music delightful? I am glad another hearer has 
come, for, as for me, I must go away.” 

He went away on the instant. She stood look- 
ing after him, her eyes filling with tears. 


“ FAIR rivals: 


279 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ FAIR RIVALS.” 

T HERE had been three rehearsals of “ Fair Ri- 
vals” before Mr. Stein, the New York mana- 
ger, who was to put the dramatic company through 
the requisite training, made his appearance ; that 
is to say, some thirteen people, to whom parts had 
been allotted, stood about the stage, going and 
coming with wrong exits and wrong entrances, 
getting into each other’s way, and once or twice 
tripping each other up ; advising everybody else, 
but listening to no advice themselves ; arguing on 
every point, quibbling and debating, — everything 
except attending to their own particular duties. 
Three of the actors only had taken pains to com- 
mit their parts to memory, the others disdained 
such an ignominious necessity; they waited, they 
declared, to get the idea of the whole. These de- 
tached sentences were too meaningless ; it was hardly 
worth their while to try to fix them upon their 
minds. Most of the minor actors were discontented ; 
each one was inclined to feel that whereas a part 
like his own was in no way calculated to show off 
his peculiar gifts, that of another might in every 
way suit him, and give him a chance to shine. 
Arthur Snow was one of the chief malcontents ; he 
had counted the speeches of each one, he affirmed, 


280 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS 


and made the discovery that he had a third less to 
say than any one else in the pla} r . Miss Winchester, 
also, had a grievance ; there was nothing in her 
part, not even a chance for a becoming costume. She 
was not ambitious, she declared ; she had not ex- 
pected to be first lady ; but yet there was a certain 
fairness to be observed, and the easy passing over of 
her claims, etc. The lovers exchanged these con- 
fidences with absolute reliance on mutual sympathy 
and comprehension, and Arthur had proposed that 
they should withdraw from the play and allow their 
neglected claims to be felt. Lilly, however, enter- 
tained no such idea ; having wit enough to realize 
that their places could easily be filled, she preferred 
to remain and take her little revenge as the chance 
came. In fact, the private theatricals were pro- 
gressing as all private theatricals progress, and 
those upon whose shoulders the chief burdens and 
responsibilities rested welcomed Mr. Stein’s arrival 
as the harbinger of a joyful change. 

Mr. Stein was a small man, with brilliant, roving 
black eyes, a head of black, bushy, curly hair, a 
querulous forehead, and an ironic smile. His usual 
voice was soft and silky^, but on the least excite- 
ment it rose to a preternatural shrillness, which 
stimulated and goaded, or cowed like a sting of 
nettles. He had managed private theatricals before, 
and knew very well what were the faults, foibles, 
and pet vanities of amateurs. He liked to be called 
a severe artist ; he aimed to establish the precedent 
of a despotic tyranny. He enjoyed having these fine 
ladies and gentlemen go down on their knees to him 
and implore that he should lower his standards to the 


“FAIR rivals: 


281 


requirements of their feeble capacities. Afterwards 
it was easy enough to reinstate them in their self- 
belief, and assure them that, with proper cultivation, 
they were likely to show surprising powers. Mr. 
Stein devoted his first night to a study of Mr. 
Heriot’s comedy, and in the morning declared his 
opinion that it was too amateurish a bit of work to 
succeed on any stage ; that it was faultily con- 
structed ; was all dialogue, all situation ; that the 
climax did not come in in the right place, and that 
there was throughout a sad deficiency of action. 

“We will put action into it somehow,” said Rod- 
ney. “We won’t let it be dull. We will intro- 
duce a tight-rope performance, a cancan , in the 
third act.” 

After finally accepting the play Mr. Stein sur- 
veyed the stage and scenery, and reviewed his corps 
of supernumeraries, property-men, scene-shifters, 
which consisted of John, Heriot’s own man, and 
Thomas, from the stables. The manager declared 
that this arrangement and the other must be changed, 
and suggested the mode. He chalked the floor ; he 
gave orders ; he made his subordinates tremble. 
Then he took his own seat in the front centre of the 
stage, and in a faint voice declared himself ready. 
It was eleven o’clock, and the young people were 
waiting in the library, laughing, chatting, and flirt- 
ing, little knowing what sort of an ordeal was in 
store for them. 

They were admitted to the gallery, and Mr. Stein 
scanned them with a leisurely air, deciding, by an 
infallible instinct, who was and who was not to 
give him trouble. 


282 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“We will begin the rehearsal, if you please, 
ladies and gentlemen,” he said, in his sweetest voice. 
“ First, I will call the roll.” 

Every one answered except Medhurst, whose part, 
Rodney Heriot observed, he was to read that 
morning. 

Mr. Stein now dismissed them all to the rear of 
the stage. He wanted no audience, he declared ; 
no one for an on-looker save himself. Not a soul 
was to be admitted to the auditorium. This an- 
nouncement was made with some violence and a 
wrathful eye, which was not reassuring. The first 
act was opened with Alec Ilaxtoun and Miss Win- 
chester : Alec, in shooting-dress, with a gun and a 
bag, encountering the young girl, a dependant of 
Mrs. Chalcote’s, just as she was leaving the house 
of her patroness. 

Neither of them knew the part, but each contrived 
to hobble over the first few sentences in a great fright, 
when Mr. Stein’s voice was heard. 

“ It is too rapid,” he cried. “ It is not audible. 
I beg you to remember, madam (this to Miss Win- 
chester) , that you are out-pf-doors. It is an autumn 
afternoon. You are not a lady ; 3*011 are not a 
soubrette. You have a position which necessitates 
seriousness, self-repression, humility. You must 
guard your eye, your tone, your manner. It is not 
a character in which you can sing high, — your tone 
must be low.” 

Lilly had carried so far into her part a self-suffi- 
cient air, a tone which sounded pert, and a charac- 
teristic little pose of the head which was distinctl}* 
out of the question. Alec was next found fault 


“FAIR rivals: 


283 


with : he, too, must remember that he was out-of- 
doors ; he had had a day’s sport, was supposed to 
be tired, — he must lounge a little. In questioning 
the girl he must show at once the indifferent ease of 
a man of the world, and the stimulus of a personal 
idea. The scene began again, but began worse 
than before. Mr. Stein threw up his eyes and his 
hands, then resigned himself to the worst, and al- 
lowed them to go on, occasionally, however, ejaculat- 
ing in a high key : — 

“Not that way, madam. Cross in front. For 
God’s sake, sir, allow me to hear you sufficiently to 
know whether you are following the text. The 
other side ! the other side ! Don’t } t ou see that you 
ought to be left centre? Ah, that will do, — that 
will do very well ! ” 

Mr. Stein began to believe that he was going to 
have a very bad time indeed. Arthur Snow came 
on presently, and became at once his special abhor- 
rence, and promised to be his worst plague. In fact, 
the act opened so badly that it needed swift and ef- 
ficient help not to instantly shipwreck everybody’s 
interest, hope, and belief. But, at last, Mrs. Dal- 
ton and Cecil came on together, and the manager’s 
views changed at once. Adela Chalcote (Fanny 
Dalton) had just welcomed her young cousin as a 
guest at her country-house, and finding her bright, 
animated, and, above all, devoid of any real 
knowledge of the world, was explaining to her her 
present position and dilfemma. Adela, being a rich 
young widow, had a score of lovers, and her house, 
although comparatively inacessible, was their con- 
stant resort. If they walked, if they drove, if they 


284 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


shot, hunted, or yachted, it was all the same ;'they 
were sure to turn up during the day to ask about 
her health, to tell her the news, to answer an invita- 
tion, bring a book or a bunch of flowers. This had 
all been very pleasant so long as she had no other 
distraction ; but at present she longed for a quiet 
interval. She wanted to meet an old friend, who 
was coming into the neighborhood to seek her out, — 
a friend, too, who would dislike the idea of her 
being the centre of attraction for other men ; who 
was jealous, sensitive, suspicious, with more than 
Caesar’s nicety about women. Then Adela proposed 
that Nathalie should for the time engross her army 
of lovers, and give her time for conversations, sen- 
timent, perhaps, indeed, romance. 

Cecil had not far to go to find the idea she was 
to carry out, and apparently did her part to perfec- 
tion. She possessed the advantage of a clear, 
deliberate, and flexible voice, and an incessant arch- 
ness, and she knew every word by heart. Mrs. 
Dalton, however, astonished the manager. His 
first experience had been of dull, blind, plodding 
worms. Cecil was a chrysalis, — she might unfold 
into a winged creature ; but here was the perfected 
butterfly. Mrs. Dalton’s was not a star part ; hers 
was not the despotism of a single figure, around 
which the others grouped, and which made triumph 
easy to her. She made the stage her own at once 
with an ease, a gayet} r , an absolute naturalness. 

“ Very good! ” Mr. Stein put in, in a tranquilliz- 
ing manner. “Excellent! Perfect! Don’t forget 
the step. Not quite so much to the front. There, 
there, that is better. That is the very thing.” 


“FAIR rivals: 


285 


But, reinstated in his ideals by this delightful in- 
terlude, he was ready to fall upon the other actors with 
still more fury as the play proceeded. He bounded 
out of his chair, rushed into the scene, disorganizing 
and rearranging everybody and everything. His 
voice grew shriller and shriller ; it piped above 
every other like a piccolo. He declaimed at every- 
body for being wooden, lifeless, — mere dull clods. 
He himself took each part, one after the other ; he 
sank languishing upon a sofa, and received a pro- 
posal; he knelt at his own feet, and made a 
declaration to himself ; accepted himself, — as it 
were, caught himself to his own heart. 

The rehearsal lasted four hours, and Mr. Stein 
was still far from being satisfied, and begged that 
the third act might be gone over once more, “just 
to fix the positions in their minds.” But the actors 
were worn out. They began to understand that the 
road to histrionic honors lay through no beds of 
musk or asphodel, and that no amaranthine bowers 
invited them to repose. Mr. Stein was far, how- 
ever, from dismissing them in an abject and hopeless 
state of mind. He took pains to rekindle their 
hopes, and, if he had destroyed their illusions, sub- 
stituted a clear ideal in its place. He had not 
spared Rodney Heriot ; at first he had shown some 
faltering, some sign of mercy ; but when he hesitated 
Rodney said : — 

“ You stand over me like Abraham over his son 
Isaac. Don’t allow anything to interpose, — make 
the sacrifice ! ” 

Medhurst came in on the second day. It was 
his fate to experience many abrupt alternations, 


286 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


but uone of them brought such a complete boule- 
versement of his habits as these rehearsals. 
His part, Colonel Campbell, was almost the only 
serious one in the play. He carried weight ; he was 
earnest, he was romantic ; he was, in fact, a little 
dull. But that was a point in his favor, so far as 
the difficulties were concerned. He knew his 
part, and it was sufficient to go through with it. 
Mr. Stein said, “ Very good ! very good ! ” in a 
tone which showed the unimportance of it all. 
He took the stage easily, aud his exits and 
entrances left nothing to be desired. The idea 
of the play was to keep him in ignorance of the 
mad pranks which were going on. Mrs. Chalcote 
had made up her mind that it was worth while 
to marry Colonel Campbell, and to effect this 
required a vast amount of propriety. Nathalie 
(Cecil) assumed the responsibility of all the 
widow’s flirtations, and effected this with irresisti- 
ble charm and imperiously high spirits. Rodney 
was Cecil’s lover, and carried into his part 
an alert intelligence and some humor, infusing 
much quaintness, querulousness, and poignancy 
into his personality. After the first three re- 
hearsals were over, the play made progress. The 
minor characters began to know their parts and 
their places. The hopeful ones had learned how 
to improve, and the hopeless had grown callous 
to all Mr. Stein’s objurgations, entreaties, and 
sarcasms. The chief of these was Arthur Snow, 
who was, to tell the truth, fortified against the mana- 
ger’s attacks by having his mind occupied with 
quite a different matter. He had decided that 


“ FAIR RIVALS .” 


287 


it was a trivial success for a man of intellect to 
take a part well, and, having dismissed that ambi- 
tion, he had all the more time to give to his 
grievances. Of these he had many, but chief 
among them was his grievance against Medhurst 
for upsetting him in the grapery, a fortnight 
before. It had required all Lilly’s persuasions 
to keep him silent regarding this. Every man 
has his sensitive point, and Arthur drew the line 
where his physical dignity and uprightness were 
concerned. It was difficult, without bitterness of 
feeling, even some vindictiveness, to pass the sec- 
retary in the house, or on the grounds ; and 
Medhurst had gradually become aware that Miss 
Winchester’s lover avoided him, scowled at him from 
corners, averted his eyes if they were forced to en- 
counter, and absolutely refrained from any spoken 
word. Medhurst was, however, so far from feeling 
any pangs of conscience where Arthur was con- 
cerned, that he merely supposed these signs to be 
the outflow of the young man’s natural disagreeable- 
ness, and never thought of imputing to them any 
personal meaning. He thought it unfortunate that 
in the play some cutting and severe speeches 
were assigned him, towards this saturnine-look- 
ing individual, who had been his military subor- 
dinate, and he let them drop as indifferently as 
possible, until Mr. Stein expostulated. 

“Is that the way to call a man a pryer, a 
listener, a beggarly rascal ? ” said he. 


288 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

RODNEY COMMITS HIMSELF TO FORTUNE. 

E ODNEY HERIOT was in the habit of wishing 
aloud in these days that he was a practical 
man ; that his mind busied itself less with ideals 
and abstractions. He had always been delicate and 
fastidious, and liked better two small glasses of 
wine than one full bumper. A practical man, he 
knew, would fill his goblet to the brim to begin with, 
and end any possible uncertainty about his chance 
of having a second. It seemed to him the proper 
course when a man is making love to a young girl, 
not to be impatient and clamorous with his inten- 
tions and expectations, but to familiarize her mind 
with the idea that they are pleasant and desirable, 
and that by the mere process of evolution she will, 
in time, develop into his affianced wife. A practical 
man, he knew, would be a little brutal ; would insist 
upon her having a surprise, a sensation, perhaps a 
shock ; would feel a distinct assurance that the 
precious creature belonged to him, and that he 
must enforce his claims. The empire of woman is 
attained by force. Rodney thought the play was 
going to help him ; but, although he was Cecil’s 
lover there, and her successful lover, too, the situa- 
tion gave him no advantages. He found himself, 
on the contrary, adhering strictly to the common- 


BODNEY COMMITS HIMSELF. 289 


place after going through his part with its fanciful 
and high-flown phrases. It was, in fact, a difficult 
matter for Rodney to break the charm of his new 
acquaintance with Cecil ; he would have preferred 
to keep it there for a time, but he began to feel 
hurried. Mrs. Dalton had of late invaded his 
thoughts, and her influence was one which disturbed, 
unsettled, and made him uneasy. They had played 
at a sort of love-making so long, he had not, at first? 
found anything new in the tones, glances, and 
words she gave him. lie had thought it a very 
pretty arrangement when Medhurst turned out to be 
Fann3 T ’s old lover. It cleared his mind of any sus- 
picion that he needed to regard the young man as a 
rival where Cecil was concerned. But nowadays 
Fanny frequently suggested that Medhurst and Cecil 
were more than friends. Rodney was not given 
to receiving with over-credulity any word of 
Fann}’^, and this he did not accept. Still he was 
moved ; his will was excited, and he resolved to 
do something, to say something, he knew not 
what, but something which should fix and retain 
Cecil. 

The play was to come off on the twelfth of 
August, and on the eleventh, just for a respite, to 
give a chance to take breath before a final rehearsal, 
Rodney proposed a little picnic. He declared that 
he felt an inclination to rough it ; that he was tired 
of eating from a table, and wanted to take his din- 
ner from a rock ; to drink out of a bottle ; to wear 
knickerbockers, and be picturesque. 

This was what he told Mrs. Haxtoun when he 
went over to invite the household. They would 


290 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


start at noon, he said, and drive thirteen miles, to 
the Devil’s Glen, and then they would eat acorns 
and berries, and carry out all the details of an 
Arcadian existence through the afternoon, return- 
ing at dusk, with the full moon rising in the east. 

Mrs. Haxtoun declared the idea to be charming. 
And were they all to go ? 

‘‘Certainly,” said Rodney. “Mr. and Mrs. 
Haxtoun, Cecil, Alec, Miss Winchester, Mr. Snow, 
and the secretary, Medhurst.” 

“ Mr. Medhurst is so very particularly busy,” said 
Mrs. Haxtoun. “Besides, he” — She waited to 
have Rodney take her idea, but he merely looked 
at her inquiringly, and she was obliged to finish. 
“ He never seems to fit into our grooves,” she 
added. 

“Doesn’t he?” asked Rodney. “He does not 
waste himself, I admit ; but I like him. I will ask 
him to come, if you have no objection.” 

“Oh, none in the world !” said Mrs. Haxtoun. 
“ Besides, Mrs. Dalton and he are ” — 

“Are they?” asked Rodney, eagerly. 

“So he told Mr. Haxtoun,” said poor Mrs. Hax- 
toun, who still had doubts, in spite of the brilliant 
illumination with which her husband had finally 
cleared up all mysteries. 

“Do you know why I am getting up this picnic?” 
asked Rodney, with a look of mischief. 

“You are always doing everything that is most 
kind.” 

“I want to speak to Cecil,” said Rodney, in a 
very soft voice, and with the look of a frightened 
little boy making some terrible secret audible. 


RODNEY COMMITS HIMSELF. 291 

Mrs. Haxtoun looked as much flattered as if he 
were making love to her. 

“Speak to Cecil?” she repeated, as if puzzled. 

“ Don’t you know what I mean? You must have 
seen,” said Rodney, with some impatience. “Surely 
you must understand that, if I can, I want to marry 
Miss Haxtoun.” 

“You do her very great honor.” 

“ Don’t say that. I am afraid you mean that I 
have a good deal to offer her. I should not be 
satisfied if she took me in that way.” 

Rodney looked singularly disturbed. His pale 
face was flushed and his eyes sparkled. “ It means 
a great deal to me,” he said, turning his eyes away. 
“ By the time a man is as old as I am he has tested 
so many things, and been disappointed so many 
times. I could not bear to be disappointed in my 
wife.” 

“ Cecil is very young,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, in an 
even, placid manner. “I think the man she 
married would find her sweet, docile, eager to 
please him. She is spirited, but” — 

Rodney was not listening. 

“I never offered myself to any woman before,” 
said he. “ It does not spring from cowardice that 
I shrink a little. What would you "Say if I were to 
ask you to tell Cecil what I have said? Then, if she 
will go to the picnic to-morrow” — He paused ; he 
grew pale. “ On my word,” said he, “I don’t know 
what I should do if I were to see she had not 
come.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun looked down at her two pretty, 
capable hands, crossed on her lap. 


292 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS . 


“I think she is almost certain to go,” she 
observed quietly. 

Rodney’s face cleared. “ Then,” said he, “ I will 
walk up to her at the glen and say, 4 Miss Haxtoun, 
will 3'ou climb to the top of the cliff with me?'*” 
Mrs. Haxtoun could not help laughing slightly. 
There was something almost infantile in Rodney’s 
face and words. A child could not have spoken 
more simply and gleefully. 

“ And you will let her go to the top of the cliff 
with me? ” he asked, laughing with her. 

“Yes, under the circumstances.” 

“ But sometimes 3 r ou have shaken your head, and 
built barricades against me.” 

She looked at him indulgently. She liked her 
future son-in-law ve^ much. She liked, too, the 
way he was putting his offer before Cecil, — so much 
better than blurting it out and embarrassing a girl, 
almost revolting her. Rodne3'' kissed her hand, and 
went into the stud3 r to give his invitation to Med- 
hurst, who was copying manuscript. 

“ You are coming to my picnic to-morrow, at 
twelve o’clock,” Rodney began at once. “ How 
would you like best to go? In a carriage with Mr. 
and Mrs. Haxtoun, or”— 

“ I can’t go at all,” said Medhurst. “ A picnic ! 
Good heavens! what are you thinking of? It was 
bad enough for me to accept a part in the play. 
I lie awake nights, and reflect what a fool I was to 
mix myself up in such matters ! ” 

“Naturally, spending all your time on an immor- 
tal work of genius, you think more of posterity than 
of this fleeting temporal generation. But forget 


RODNEY COMMITS HIMSELF. 


293 

posterity for once. Come and have a cheerful after- 
noon.” 

44 I can’t go.” 

44 I insist upon it.” 

“ Don’t. I am out of humor with myself and 
with all the world. I am in no mood for picnics. 
I am in no mood for anything save getting away 
from here.” 

4 4 Is it as bad as that?” 

44 Yes.” • 

Rodney looked the other over. Medhurst cer- 
tainly wore the air of a man ill at ease. “ I wish I 
might do something for 3 7 ou,” said he. 

44 You can’t. We have to look after ourselves, — 
eat for ourselves, digest for ourselves, sleep for our- 
selves, act and walk for ourselves. Above all, we 
have to settle the question of nerves and brains for 
ourselves.” 

44 It is a question of nerves and brain, is it?” 

44 Don’t talk to me, Heriot,” cried Medhurst. 44 Go 
away and enjoy yourself. I don’t begrudge you your 
good luck. I like to think there is a man to whom 
everything comes, — freedom from sordid needs 
and cares ; whose independence is not crushed out 
of him by his being compelled to bend double under 
th«' burden of making his own living ; who is not 
domineered over bj T narrow intellects, and who need 
not refuse anything ideal, an3 7 thiiig beautiful, worthy, 
true, satisfactory, as a temptation of the devil.’* 

Rodney looked confounded. 

44 Has anything happened?” he asked. 

Medhurst laughed. 44 Excuse my petulance. I 
am angry and out of sorts. I had no right to vent 


294 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


my rage upon you, however. I have tried to give 
myself up to this life for a time, but I see the im- 
possibility of it.” 

Rodney had entertained the idea of sitting down 
for an hour with Medhurst, and telling him what his 
intentions were regarding Miss Ilaxtoun. Consid- 
ering that he had felt some twinges of jealousy 
about Medhurst this might seem inconsistent. But 
those impressions were lost sight of at present. He 
was in a joyous mood, and he wanted to talk over 
his many-tinted feelings, classify and anatyze them, 
and from Medhurst alone he felt sure of compre- 
hension. Rodney, however, was no egotist, and he 
saw that the 3 T oung fellow had some trouble of his 
own which at present blurred the world for him. His 
face showed restlessness, impatience, some anger, 
but, above all, a hopeless despondency. 

“ You would rather have me go away now ? ” said 
Rodney. 

“Yes. After that confounded play is over I will 
pay you a visit, and tell you where I stand ; for by 
that time I hope to have made up my mind.” 

“ And 3 7 ou will not come to my 7 picnic? ” 

“Thank you; no. If they are all away I shall 
rejoice to be left alone in this silent house.” 

The next morning was as fine as Rodne3 T could 
desire. He slept but little through the night, 
and that by snatches. He watched the day dawn, 
having flung his shutters wide open, and, lying on his 
bed, he could see the flush in the north-east, the 
purple shadows withdrawing and leaving only a 
gauzy veil inwoven with flame along the horizon. He 
felt the peace and beauty of the sunrise like a bene- 


RODNEY COMMITS HIMSELF. 


295 


diction. The sun was not yet above the tree-tops 
when he left the house. He crossed the lawn to the 
stables, and unchained the two dogs, — Max, the Si- 
berian bloodhound, and Duke, the Gordon setter, — 
who fawned about him frantic with joy. Rodney 
liked their gambols. Max could wear the dignity of 
a dog on canvas ; but Duke was hardly past his 
puppy hood, and was the most beguiling of compan- 
ions, luring the old hound into many an unseemly 
prank. They chased each other ; they went through 
mimic battles ; they rolled over and over in a close 
embrace, pretending to bite and snarl and chew 
each other, Max occasionally escaping from the 
game, and resuming his majesty with a glance at his 
master which explained the reason of his condescen- 
sion to the volatile Duke. Rodney walked through 
the woods to the meadows, where the spider-webs 
were stretched over the crest of the grasses, and their 
weft, wet with the dew, sparkled like a jewel-casket. 

“ That is the sign of a fair day,” said Rodney to 
himself. 

The meadow was a pasturage, and, while he was 
climbing the side of the hill at whose top the woods 
began again, a cow-boy let down the bars and a drove 
of cows came winding leisurely in, — beautiful, sleek, 
soft-faced Alderneys, and two pretty Jersey heifers, 
who began a wild riot at the sight of the clover, 
and ran towards it in mad haste. The dogs resented 
this intrusion, and set up a furious barking, and 
it was all Rodney could do to call them off. 

“ Be quiet, be quiet, I say ! ” he cried, and bran- 
dished an imaginary weapon. 

lie had reached the brow of the hill, and strode 


296 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


forward, hastily driving the dogs before him, into the 
thick grove of oaks and chestnuts, carpeted with 
dark, thin, green grass, and thick, deep moss thickly 
strewn with acorn windfalls. 

Something moving caught the dogs’ eyes and 
Rodney’s simultaneously, and in a second more, at a 
bound, a squirrel was far up the trunk of a chestnut, 
and among the branches could look safely down 
and laugh at the despair of the setter, whose blood 
was on fire in his veins. In another moment both 
animals dashed furiously into the ferns and under- 
brush ; a rustling noise came to Rodney’s ears, 
a cry was heard, and there was a great flapping of 
wings, as some ground-birds flew to the top of a 
bush. 

“ Come here, you rascal ! Come here, I say ! ” cried 
Rodne}'. “What mischief are you up to? Come 
here, I say ! ” 

There was no mistaking his tone, and both dogs 
sneaked out of the thicket, Duke with something in 
his month, — something soft, fluffy, palpitating, the 
sight of which turned Rodne} T absolutely sick with 
pain. It was a young pheasant, and he took it from 
the setter and held it in his hand. It made no ef- 
fort to escape ; it lay quite helpless, giving now and 
then a convulsive twitch ; its eyes were closed. He 
hoped it had merely swooned from fright, and he 
waited, believing it might revive. He would have 
given much to see it fly away. 

“ If I had stayed at home this creature would 
have been alive still,” he said to himself, with a 
profound sensation of sorrow and remorse. He 
did not blame Duke ; he blamed only himself. 


RODNEY COMMITS HIMSELF . 


297 


He sought out a little mossy nook at the foot of 
a half-dead oak, and laid the bird there. lie 
felt as if the pitiful sight of the rumpled feathers 
would haunt him evermore. The dogs understood 
his sombre mood, and eyed their victim with contri- 
tion, slinking after him close to his heels as he went 
a little deeper into the wood and washed his hands 
at the spring. 

“ I am just such an animal as the}' are/’ he said 
to himself. His blithe mood was over. When he 
came out a new world had seemed opening to him. 
Kow, he felt that he was an accursed egotist, who 
asked too much ; he had no right to go on satisfying 
himself in this selfish way. 

But by the time noon came, and the picknicing 
party was setting out, he had regained some sort of 
equipoise. 


298 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A PICNIC. 


RS. ESTJ& was to take Mr. Ilaxtoun and 



A_VJL Cecil to the picnic in the landau, while Mrs. 
Haxtoun, Alec, and Mrs. Dalton were to go in the 
barouche. Arthur Snow was to drive Miss Win- 
chester in the pony carriage, and Rodney was to 
have an old friend, named Edmunds, with him in the 
T-cart. But Rodney told Edmunds to drive on, and 
he accompanied his mother to the Haxtouns’ and 
waited for the party to assemble there. 

The family seemed to be gathered on the veranda, 
but Cecil was not among them. No one would have 
known exactly how much the girl’s absence meant to 
Rodney when he asked her mother where she was. 

“ She is coming,” Mrs. Haxtoun replied, impas- 
sively, and without meeting Rodney’s eyes. She 
went in, and presently reappeared with her daugh- 
ter, who looked serious, pale, and rather haughty. 
She gave a comprehensive little nod, but did not 
once glance towards Rodney, who acknowledged 
her presence with a deep salam. 

u May I put you in the carriage?” he asked, and 
took her hand in his and led her down the steps, and 
only resigned her when she was seated beside his 
mother. Mr. Haxtoun followed, well burdened with 
plaids, water-proofs, overshoes, and umbrellas. 


A PICNIC . 


299 


“Dear me !” said Mrs..Est6, with her little shriek. 

‘ 4 Do you suppose we are likely to get drenched ? 
Shakespeare says, 4 When clouds are seen, wise men 
put on their cloaks ’ ; but we can have the carriage- 
top put up.” 

4 4 The weather indications are for showers and 
falling barometer,” said Mr. Haxtoun ; 44 and it 
seems better to play a prudent part. Besides, if we 
sit on the ground, we shall want water-proofs.” 

44 Don’t ask me to put my old bones in jeopardy. 
I like to go on a picnic once a year, to refresh my 
memory of what a horrid bore it is. I should have 
declined this, but I hate to leave off doing things. 
One gets so narrowed down and limited by the 
years, one should only give up what one is com- 
pelled to.” 

While Mr. Haxtoun was settling himself and 
his belongings, Rodney, on the other side, leaned 
his arm on the door, and gazed into Cecil’s face. 
His head was so near hers one might have thought 
he said something in an inaudible voice, but he 
could not have spoken to save his life. She, on her 
side, gazed back at him as if both terrified and 
fascinated. 

44 Are you coming, Rodney?” asked Mrs. Est6, 
44 or shall Peter drive on?” 

Rodney wrenched himself away, raised his hat, 
and walked down the avenue, meeting the T-cart on 
the road. He jumped in, took the reins from 
Edmunds, and headed the party, distancing them 
by a mile or more the first quarter of an hour. It 
was easy for Edmunds to see that Ileriot was burn- 
ing a good deal of fuel to-day ; but he did not, with 


300 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS . 


intrusive curiosity, seek to discover where it all came 
from. Rodney was evidently furiously in earnest 
about something. The guest asked occasional ques- 
tions about the country through which they were 
passing, and was answered clearly and definitely 
enough. They reached the glen almost three-quar- 
ters of an hour before the rest of the party, and 
Rodney occupied himself in sending the servants, 
who were already getting out the cold lunch, hither 
and thither. He chose a place for the wine-cellar, 
and showed them how to lay the ice. 

They had brought half-a-dozen steamer-chairs, 
which were placed on a rug, and preparations for 
everybody’s comfort were being made in an exact 
and substantial way, which showed what advantages 
could be wrested from a situation habitually asso- 
ciated with discomfort. 

“ This is not so bad, you see, Mr. Haxtoun,” Mrs. 
Est6 said to him when the party arrived. “You 
can have your feet on a Turkey rug, and your body on 
a cushioned seat ; and under theise circumstances 
one may give one’s self up to enjoyment. Just look 
at the tops of the trees against the sky ! See the 
sunlight flickering through that dome of green ! 
Oh, how lovely nature is ! Why should not one 
always live here among trees and moss?” 

“ Damp ! damp ! ” returned Mr. Haxtoun, gloomily. 
He had put on his rubber shoes, and was now 
arranging a shawl over his shoulders. “Do you 
happen to know,” he asked, in a preternatural sort 
of voice, “what there is to be for lunch?” 

“Salads, mayonnaise , and cold pies,” said Mrs. 
Est6. 


A PICNIC. 


301 


He shuddered. “ 1 don’t know why I came,” he 
said plaintively. “Mrs. Haxtoun made a point of 
it ; if the results of this picnic are that she is 
left a widow I am not sure but that she ought to be 
answerable for it.” 

“ You shall have some of my nice, hot, nourishing 
bouillon ,” said Mrs. Este, soothingly. “ They have 
got a little silver apparatus to heat it with, and can 
give it to me just as I have it at home.” 

The place had a good deal of character and 
charm. On the south rose a high wall of rock, 
which seemed, towards the top, to have been 
smoothed with a chisel, it was so polished and so 
bare ; below, it was broken ; the massive blocks were 
piled on one another in confusion, and in the wide 
crevices was a perfect luxuriance of vegetation, 
— hemlocks, pines, dwarfed maples, and laurels. 
Many of the trees seemed to cling to the sheer rock, 
and had only half saved themselves from being 
carried away by the spring torrents. At the foot 
of the cliff a noisy stream rushed along, now bab- 
bling over shallows, again sleeping in pools which 
overflowed into cascades. 

The young people declared the gorge charming, 
and found rare preeiousness in the glimpses of the 
far-off sky, against which the tassels of the pines 
moved perpetually. Alec devoted himself to Mrs. 
Dalton, Edmunds took Cecil, and Arthur and Lilly 
wandered about as usual, coupled and insepa- 
rable. Mrs. Dalton amused herself with Alec, and 
put him through a course of training which she 
thought calculated to do him good. She did not 
allow herself to be too easily pleased. Nobody 


302 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


else was ready to suffer martyrdom for her sake at 
present,* and Alec’s prodigality of self-sacrifice 
ought not to be wasted. She asked for some laurel- 
leaves, and he climbed half-way up the cliff to get 
the glossiest for her. She saw a remarkable-looking 
stone at the bottom of the brook, and, when she 
insisted, it was disembedded at some risk, for 
the water was so clear it gave no idea of its actual 
depth. Alec had put on his prettiest summer 
clothes, and, as may be imagined, these labors were 
quite unsuited to the delicate lavender of the 
trousers. But he dared not think of the results, with 
the widow’s half-satirical, half-sweetly expectant 
gaze upon him. His soul burned within him with 
envy to see Rodney Heriot in dark-blue knicker- 
bockers, easy, untrammelled, and particularly 
handsome. 

“ I say,” said he to Arthur Snow, when he had a 
moment of opportunity, just before lunch, “why 
couldn’t you and I have had the sense to come 
properly dressed? I’ve smeared my knees with 
clay, and stained them green besides. And I heard 
a stitch give way, by Jove, I did ! I wish you would 
look and see if it is all right.” 

“How can I look?” asked Arthur. “Mrs. 
Dalton is staring straight at me.” 

“ She isn’t looking at you ; she is looking at me.” 

“ I tell you she is looking straight at me.” 

“Never mind, go on.. It isn’t as if it were Lilly.” 

“ Lilly wouldn’t stare us out of countenance,” 
said Arthur, in a tone of indignation. “ But no 
matter. I think the seams are strained ; but if you 
are prudent ” — 


A PICNIC. 


303 


Alec groaned within himself, with a lively wish 
which contained no ingredient of expectation that 
Mrs. Dalton might be prudent. He was too much 
enamored at present to be able to look out for his 
own preservation. He was not master of his acts ; 
she dictated them. Besides, as all men know, fair 
Cunigunde, sending her lover into the lion’s jaws to 
pick up her glove, is the model of every woman on a 
pleasure-excursion. 

By this time Mr. Haxtoun and Mrs. Est6 were 
drinking bouillon , to keep off the chill, while Mrs. 
Haxtoun sought, with the finest tact and spirit, to 
persuade them that the day was charming, the warmth 
genial, and the moss dry as a Persian rug which has 
six times crossed the desert. Mrs. Este had at first 
been a little carried away by the romantic charm of 
the glen, — she was always ready to kindle at 
romance, — but Mr. Haxtoun had depressed her. 
She began to think about dampness and malaria ; 
she analyzed her sensations, to discover whether 
they were normal; she had the tiger-skin brought 
for her feet ; she questioned her son as to what time 
he thought they might get home. 

Mrs. Haxtoun had gone the road to pleasure 
before like a convict with a weight chained to his 
leg, and did not relax her efforts to pique, interest, 
and rouse her husband. She had come to the 
picnic with a purpose, and intended that the pur- 
pose should be carried out. She selected all the 
nicest bits of the luncheon for the old gentleman 
without thought of the possible consequences, and 
when he demurred said : — 

u Oh, in this fresh, delicious air, with this healthy 


304 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


resinous odor coming from the evergreens, you can 
eat anything, my dear.” 

Mr. Haxtoun began mildly to be cheered. He 
took some old Madeira, of strange potency, and 
promised soon to be a little inebriated. 

“ Tell Mrs. Este about your great discovery of a 
new epic, dearest Leonard,” now suggested the inde- 
fatigable wife. 

“ Not a new epic. What can you mean? A new 
idea in the epic, which even Max Muller has over- 
looked,” said Mr. Haxtoun. The subject was dear 
to him, and comparatively new ; he thought about 
it constantly, with ever fresh amplifications! 

Mrs. Est6 gave a little shriek of delight to think 
of a delightful new idea, and nestled among her 
wraps to assume the best attitude of attention, with 
a look at the old gentleman as if she were breathless 
with interest and admiration. He began to expound 
at once, with unmixed, unchecked delight at his 
opportunity, and she tried to keep up with him. 
She plied her parasol, her fan, her vinaigrette; she 
pinched herself, she shook herself, she gave little 
screams. Mr. Haxtoun meantime revolved round 
his subject with large, fluent, and impressive sen- 
tences. Its vagueness, magnitude, remoteness, just 
suited him ; there was no necessity for fixed con- 
clusions, because there was no possibility of attain- 
ing any ; talking about it was like pouring water 
into empty sieves, rolling a stone up-hill, and then 
down again. Mrs. Este’s exclamations grew fainter 
afrd fainter, — they ceased entirely : she slept. 
Mr. Haxtoun, nevertheless, neither paused nor 
slackened, — he had his subject, and that was 


A PICNIC. 


305 


enough. By a judicious “Indeed,” “Exactly, I 
see the force of your remarks,” at intervals, Mrs. 
Haxtoun kept him rushing on with a steady 
stream. 

Cecil had sat very quietly under the trees with 
Lilly Winchester. Now and then Rodney Heriot 
had gone up to her, but he had scarcely broken the 
silence which had fallen between them. When the 
luncheon was over he said, “ Will you go to the 
top of the cliff with me?” and watched the little 
trembling of her lips and the drop of her eyelids as 
she rose. He did not look at her, nor she at him. 
He did not speak to her. They went down the 
glen, along the side of the bank, until they reached 
the stepping-stones, and then he took her hand to 
help her across, and did not again let it go. They 
climbed the first ledge thus, hand in hand. 

“ Are you tired? ” Rodney asked, looking into her 
face. 

She seemed a little breathless. She was pale, and 
her eyes had the large, serious gaze of an awed 
child. 

She shook her head. 

“ I want to do just what you would wish to do,” 
said he. 

He was deeply stirred as he thus gazed at her. 
His eyes were blinded with tears, his lips trembled. 
“ My dear — my dearest — my precious little one!’’ 
said he, the words coming from him as if pressed 
forth by some force stronger than himself. “I 
want to be so good to you,” he continued, with an 
odd half -laugh. “ May I fall On the ground, 'iand 
kiss your feet ? ” 


306 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Let us go on,” she said, in a dull, monotonous 
voice, quite unlike her own. 

They went on. The path - was narrow, and they 
could not walk abreast, but he would not release her 
hand. His emotion scared him, and he began to 
jest and talk fantastically. He found out an echo 
and called to it ; he sang little snatches of songs. 
A stone was in the way, and with the point of his 
boot he threw it from the path, and it went 
thundering down the precipice. He pretended to 
be in horror lest it should fall on somebody’s head ; 
he pictured possible catastrophes ; he found him- 
self culpable of matricide or fratricide. 

“ For your father is my father now, is he not?” 
he asked, putting his face close to Cecil’s, with the 
intonation of a mischievous little boy. 

But no sign on that immovable, pale face an- 
swered his light words. 

He fell into silence again, and looked at Cecil. 
She wore a suit of dark red, a wide-brimmed black 
hat with red plumes. His eyes fixed insatiably 
upon the clear, pure profile ; he had never felt' 
loveliness before. He knew not what of all that 
was in his heart he dared utter aloud. He was 
afraid of frightening her. To his generosity, to his 
magnanimity, he said to himself, there must be no 
bounds. He must not talk of love to her ; only of 
what would neither terrify, flutter, nor embarrass 
her. Still, he wanted one little word, one little 
sign ; it was not enough that she had come to-day, 
had let him bring her to the top of the cliff ; he 
must have just one little token of consent, of 
surrender. 


A PICNIC. 


307 


They were, by this time, on the heights, and 
could look down upon the vast sea of foliage, — oak 
trees, chestnuts, maples, rich in leaf, with their 
brilliant and luminous tints against the darker, duller 
green of the resinous trees ; they could hear the glad 
music of the brook among the boulders far below, 
but could not gain a glimpse of it. Here, at the top 
of the cliff, a few old oaks and cedars, overrun with 
creepers, whose bunches of leaves hung like festive 
garlands, kept off the heat of the sun, and the air 
was fresher than at the bottom of the ravine. Not 
a living creature seemed near ; not even a bird’s 
song broke the silence. 

44 Cecil,” muttered Rodney, at last, dropping her 
hand, 44 will you not look at me?” 

He was flushed with excitement, she was pale as 
death. She seemed under the constraint of some 
imprisoning consciousness which she could not 
shake off. 

44 Cecil,” he cried, 44 oh, for God’s sake, speak to 
me ! ” 

But she did not answer. Her breath came in 
quick, short gasps. Rodney stood for a moment wait- 
ing for her reply, then half-fell, half-flung himself on 
the ground at her feet, and so looked up into her face. 

44 If you won’t take me, Cecil,” said he, 44 let me 
fling myself over the rocks. I cannot live without 
you.” 

44 What shall I say?” she asked, with a visible 
shudder, but with the blood rushing to her cheeks. 

He caught her hand and kissed it on the palm. 

44 Don’t say anything,” he answered. 44 This is 
enough. It is enough that you are here with me. 


308 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Only tell me one thing, — you are going to try to 
love me?” 

She looked down at him now with a definite, in- 
tent glance. “ I promised mamma,” she said, in a 
low, clear voice. 

“ That you would try to love me?” 

“Yes.” 

He looked up at her, absolutely ravished with 
happiness. He was not. certain but that he liked 
this mystery, this sweet uncertainty, better than the 
full revelation ; for how could he have borne that? 
To have been free to take her in his arms, to clasp 
her to his breast, would have been too much. 

“You believe in me, — you trust me, do you 
not?” he asked, tremulously. 

“ I do not feel that I know you yet.” 

Their eyes met, — his showed an unusual brilliancy 
of glance, a vivacity and strength beyond her ex- 
perience of him, while hers were timid and rather 
sad. There was no spontaneity about her, and, 
although she had shown agitation, it was not in 
answer to his, but the result of some poignant feel- 
ing of her own. 

“ Mamma says,” she now went on, “ that it is a 
great honor — a great chance for me — to become 
your wife ; that nothing in the world could content 
her so well.” 

He lost color a little. He rose. 

“ Come and sit down on this log,” said he. “ Do 
you know, I rode over here yesterday, and looked at 
this place? I wanted a seat here, and I dragged 
this trunk from the foot of those locust-trees. I 


A PICNIC. 


309 

thought to myself then, 4 Perhaps Cecil will sit here 
with me.’ ” 

He looked into her face and laughed. 

“ My wish is coming to pass.” 

He led her to the log, and she sat down. He flung 
himself on the grass before her at full length. 

“ At your feet,” said he. 44 Perhaps some day 
you will say, 4 Friend, come up higher/ ” 

There was irresistible whim in his voice, and his 
eyes lit with some amusement. 

44 Did your mother tell you I loved you very 
much ? ” he now asked. 

She shook her head. 

44 1 do,” said he, in a delightful voice. “I think 
of you all the time. The first night I ever saw you 
I fell in love. You were perpetually yawning, and 
I fancy that was what bewitched me.” 

She smiled a little, — she could not help it. 

44 You are so grudgingand so chary,” he went on, 
44 that I have little else to tell. If you have not 
yawned you have snubbed me, you have eluded me, 
you have laughed at me ; but I have gone on loving 
you. I did not realize it at first, or I should have 
run away. I’m afraid of this feeling ; it is stronger 
than myself.” 

They looked at each other, tremulously and seri- 
ously. 

44 1 know what it all means,” he said, presently. 
44 1 used to think life had nothing equal to our 
dreams. For years I went on trying everything, con- 
suming myself in vain regrets that I could find noth- 
ing. But now ” — 

He wrenched himself away from the grasp of his 


310 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


passion. “ I’ll be good to you,” he began again 
swiftly. “I have been a brute sometimes, but — 
I will be very good to you. That is what I am all 
the time thinking about. I keep you close at my side. 
I fancy you are cold, and I wrap you in soft, warm 
things. I say to you, ‘What would you like, my little 
one ? Where will you go ? ’ Perhaps it is a twi- 
light walk you will be taking, and we set off, you 
on my arm, — not here, but in some beautiful part 
of the Old World where I have been before, all 
alone, — where I have longed for you. Perhaps we 
go upon the water in some tranquil bay, with lovely 
shores and high wooded hills, where the waters are 
golden, and the oars take the sunset light, as they 
come up dripping. Or we are in cities, and we 
drive about in great glee ; we order dinners at cafes; 
that is, I order them for you. I say to you, ‘ My 
little wife, I will give you such a meal lis you never 
ate before in your life,’ and I write out th emenu while 
you sit and wait. Then you hate the strange, sa- 
vory, but too complex dishes, and I tell you, ‘You 
shall live on biscuit and cream, — a baby’s diet 
best suits a little girl like you.’ ” He laughed irre- 
sistibly. “You will see all the pictures too, — I 
will teach you how to look at pictures. And you 
shall climb the Alps, very carefully ; but you are 
young and strong, and you ought to do it once. 
But we are not always going about, — we sit by the 
fire Together; you have on such pretty little slip- 
pers ; your feet are cold ; you” — He broke off ; 
he laughed, but his eyes were shining. “ Oh, what 
a wonder you will make of the world for me ! ” he 
said, very low under his breath, and stopped short, 


A PICNIC. 


311 


his blood tingling with ecstasy at this new, strange 
expectation. 

Cecil sat looking down at him seriously, with di- 
lated eyes. “ The sooner you fall in love with me 
th*£ better ! ” he exclaimed, with some imperiousness. 
“ I will be patient a little while: ; but then I shall 
be very impatient, — a very demon of impatience ! ” 

While he said this some feeling rushed over her, 
drowning all her consciousness like a flood ; her face 
sank on her breast, and she covered it with her 
hands. 

In a moment he was leaning over her, — he had 
his arm about her. “I have said too much; for- 
give me, — forgive me,” said he. u Tell me what 
it is.” 

She looked up at him with streaming eyes. 

“ I feel as if I ought not to listen,” she said, be- 
tween her sobs. “Your words mean so much to 
you, but to me they mean so little ; they” — 

“Don’t mistrust me. Trust me absolutely. I 
will not be impatient ; I did not intend to say that. 
Don’t be worried about the future.” Still looking 
at him -her terror and her distrust vanished. “We 
won’t be even engaged,” he said ; “ that is, to have 
anybody know about it but your mother and our- 
selves, until you get used to the idea.” 

“ You are very good to me,” she faltered. 

“Ami?” He looked at her long and steadily. 
“ I want to be good to you,” he said then ; ^ 

want you to love me. I want you to love me ’’with 
your whole heart. And I am not unworthy,— I 
swear to you I am not unworthy. I am swept and 
garnished for you. Nothing that does not belong 


312 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


to you can enter in. O my little love ! — my lit- 
tle love ! ” 

He was still bending over her. 

“ My little love ! ” he said again, “ I want to do 
something that shall content you. Shall I fling jny- 
self over the rocks there, and take myself out of 
your sight and thought forever ? ” 

With a stinging sense of her own ingratitude 
she caught his hand in hers. 

“ Don’t say such things ! ” she whispered. 

The action delighted him ; he lifted the little hand 
and kissed it. “ And to think,” he exclaimed, u that 
I may go to New York and buy a ring for this 
little hand ! ” 

At this moment the scene was interrupted by one 
of the men who appeared at the top of the rocks, 
shrieking, volubly and shrilly, that all was packed 
up and the party ready to start ; that a storm was 
at hand. 

Brought back to his senses Rodney saw that great 
clouds had gathered; that the sun was blackly 
obscured ; that the whole character of the day had 
changed. What had to be instantly done was to 
hurry Cecil down the zigzagging path, which, under 
the dense foliage, was almost as dark as night. The 
ravine seemed a very gulf of blackness. The wind 
roared through the trees, and when they could catch 
sight of the sky it showed great masses of vapor, 
mining, -separating, driven asunder and apart. 
Omy one carriage waited, and into that Rodney 
bundled Cecil, and, at the next instant, at one 
swoop the rain fell. He sat on the box all the 
way home, nevertheless. The rain seemed a glad 
thing to him. 


A SOIREE DRAMATIQUE. 


313 


CHAPTER XXI. 

A SOIREE DRAMATIQUE. 

T HE next day rose fair enough ; and dies irce as 
it was for manager and actors, it needed to be 
fair. At the very sight of Mr. Stein, walking about 
the stage, rechalking all the lines for the furniture, 
the group of amateurs turned pale. He was, to 
begin with, at the white heat into which he usually 
worked himself by the end of the rehearsal, and 
those signs of exasperation boded ill to every one of 
them. He was not even pleased with Mrs. Dalton 
to-day ; he disdained her remarks, and rejected, with 
a sort of fury, all her suggestions. The u leading 
lady ” could afford to shrug her shoulders at the 
manager’s ill-temper, but not so the lesser dramatis 
personae. The rehearsal went badly. A last re- 
hearsal is apt to go badly, but a good omen for the 
public performance is said to blossom out of a bad 
final rehearsal. Mr. Stein ignored, however, any 
pleasing predictions for the evening. Not one of 
the minor actors seemed to know his or her part ; 
exits and entrances were all wrong. All spirit 
flatly gone out of the play, and the whole thing 
dragged. Not even Mrs. Dalton and Rodney Heriot 
could infuse life into the piece. Cecil was languid 
and lifeless. Alec tripped constantly in his text, 


314 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


overacted, lost his points, and showed a tendency 
to introduce “gags,” which infuriated the manager. 
In fact, it was a stormy scene, and it was an expe- 
rience to inspire despair. The acts, repeated over 
and over, stretched out endlessly ; the actors went 
out by turns, when they had a moment off the stage, 
and drank coffee and ate sandwiches, then dispir- 
itedly returned to the business of the hour. Innu- 
merable questions arose concerning every scene, and 
everybody’s legs and elbows. The play fairly bris- 
tled with difficulties, hitherto overlooked or post- 
poned. 

To Medhurst it was a long day. He had never 
forgiven himself for consenting to take a part, and 
his annoyance had grown with each succeeding expe- 
rience of the play. He was never over-pliant to the 
requirements of a new situation. He had none of 
that easy strategy which allows a man to seize what 
he finds essential, and disembarrasses himself of 
what is trivial or annoying. His part was a dry 
one, although most of the plot of the play hung on 
the details of it. He was perpetually thrown into 
contact with Arthur Snow and Miss Winchester, who 
showed themselves to-day so imperfect in their 
roles that the scenes had to be gone through over and 
over again. The mere reiteration was depressing 
and irritating enough, but Mr. Stein’s temper made 
it unbearable. He shrieked, he screamed, he tore 
ffis hair, he stamped his feet. By following his 
directions one could gain no advantage ; by rejecting 
them one was almost torn to pieces. For a time 
Medhurst supposed that he, as well as the others, 
was the object of these spirited invectives, and 


A SOIREE DRAMATIQUE. 


315 


infused as much correctness into his part as he was 
master of, although it seemed to be of no use. But 
presently Mr. Stein, perhaps by way of adding 
fresh bitterness to his fault-finding, made the 
amende , and offered his polite condolences for Med- 
hurst’ s being compelled to suffer for the clumsy and 
stupid performance of the others. 

This was unfortunate. Arthur Snow had grown 
each day more aggressive and more impertinent to 
Medliurst. At first the latter had received these 
manifestations as if they had been the general 
petty signs of life given by an unhappy and suffer- 
ing cur ; but he began to see that they were ad- 
dressed to himself. Arthur Snow was evidently 
enraged with him, for some unknown cause ; and, 
whatever might have lighted the fire, Medhurst 
could easily see that Mr. Stein’s words added fresh 
fuel to it. The little fellow perpetually snarled ; he 
swore under his breath ; he scowled at Medhurst 
when he saw him in his way, and would not turn 
out. Nature had not made Medhurst very patient ; 
but he bore this for the time. The play was 
Rodney Heriot’s, and he would not complicate its 
difficulties by private quarrels. He continued to go 
through his part as if by mechanism ; his face 
showed neither vexation, amusement, nor weariness. 
He seemed, perhaps, absent-minded ; but his 
thoughts were not elsewhere, he was absolutely 
engrossed by the situation ; he was all attention, — 
he lost nothing. He watched Mrs. Dalton, Heriot, 
and Miss Ilaxtoun. Fanny was fascinated with 
herself at present, and he discovered nothing 
in her save the tricks and niceties of her art. 


31G 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Ileriot was excited, and apparently in the seventh 
heaven of enjoyment ; but Cecil drooped visibly. 
Medhurst began feverishly to wish that he was away. 
If there was any power, any pride, any manhood 
left in him, he longed to regather it. Clearly it 
was circumstance or fate, or it was the besotted 
blindness of others, which had made him love this 
girl ; of his own accord he would never have dared 
think of her. But, in the first place, Rodney Ileriot 
had set him on ; then Mrs. Haxtoun’s doubts, fears, 
prohibitions ; Mr. Haxtoun’s careful diplomacy ; 
and, finally, Fanny Dalton’s too clear picturing of 
what had hovered in the furthest confines of his 
imagination — a far-off fancy — had brought Cecil 
close before his eyes and heart ; had driven him to 
watch her, to think of her, to dream about her. 
Ah, what dreams ! Did he hope she loved him ? 
He said to himself he would rather he were dead 
than hear her say she loved him. But then a man 
may say very strong things, which have no echo in 
the heart at all. 

“ To-morrow,” Medhurst thought within himself, 
1 4 to-morrow the play will be over. Then I will 
make up my mind what to do.” 

The curtain went up at nine o’clock that night, 
and the play began. The entire neighborhood of 
Philadelphia was represented by the audience, and 
the orchestra and supper were from New York. 
But, in spite of this brilliance, in spite of the cos- 
tumes, the first scene dragged a little, and Arthur 
Snow and Lilly Winchester came off presently 
quite out of humor. Other people had applause, — 
not they ; let them do what they would they were 


A SOIREE DRAMATIQUE. 


317 


met with fault-finding, peremptory accents, and 
suggestions for improvement. There were the others 
all radiant in the sunlight, with halos of superiority 
round their faces, — they, alas ! stood in the shadow, 
rayless. Lilly, however, a little further on, was to 
taste the sweets of popularity : by a little toss of 
the head, a little moue , a little coquetry, which by 
no means belonged to her part, but showed the 
irresistible feminine instinct, she brought down the 
house. After this success Arthur sulked alone ; 
he was jealous of Lilly, disgusted with all the world. 
It was almost a comfort to him that he had an abso- 
lute grievance against Medhurst, for the demon of 
quarrel had taken possession of him, and he was 
determined to vent it. 

Meanwhile Fanny Dalton was having a great 
success ; her imperious, brilliant personality made 
itself felt ; she swayed the other actors, stirred 
their powers, and carried them along with her. Cecil 
woke up ; she was naive , charming ; she was irresisti- 
ble. When Fanny dazzled and surprised, she fasci- 
nated ; when Fanny sparkled, she glowed. She 
showed lively sensations, original impressions, and, 
at the same time, a girlish dignity and modesty 
which won the heart. Everybody declared that 
Fanny Dalton was the most finished actress, but 
Cecil was more interesting. Cecil was called out 
again and again, and while she was bowing and 
carrying off her loads of bouquets, somebody remem- 
bered to cry, “ Mrs. Chalcote ! Mrs. Chalcote ! ” 

Rodney went up to Cecil, behind the scenes, with 
a little grimace. “You are carrying off all the 
honors,” said he. “Madame will be cross.” 


318 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“It is very absurd,” Cecil returned, “for them 
to applaud me. She acts a thousand — a million 
times better than I ever could.” 

“ Of course she does.” 

“ But my part is perhaps more pleasing.” 

“ She did not think so. Yours has more bonte , 
and, besides, a little dash of humor.” 

“ Yes, that is it,” said Cecil. 

“ You don’t care for your triumphs.” 

Cecil looked at him, and smiled a little wistfully. 
He had not spoken to her all day of what had 
happened yesterday, but his eyes reminded her of 
it now. How was she to tell him that some burning 
pain in her heart goaded her on, and how a convic- 
tion of her impotence and hopelessness, of the use- 
lessness of trying to control her destiny, made her 
wreak her force on any opportunity within her 
power ? 

Rodney had no time to say more. lie was called 
on again, and presently the whole circle of actors 
went on the stage, and the curtain went down amidst 
loud plaudits, and the play was over. Mr. Stein 
was on his feet at once, bowing, complimenting, 
overflowing with flattery. Never had he had such a 
company before ! Nothing on the contemporary 
stage could equal it. Mrs. Dalton was the link 
which united the fervid past with the aesthetic and 
pictorial present ; she was the comedienne of whom 
he had dreamed. Cecil’s performance was praised ; 
but the experienced manager saw behind the illusion 
of it : it was the result of excitement, the sensitive- 
ness of strained nerves ; it was very charming, still it 
was not art ; but Mrs. Dalton he glorified. A group 


319 


A SOIREE DRAMATIQUE. 

gathered round her. She was on the pinnacle at 
once to which she had aspired ; all the world — that 
is, all the world she could see at that moment — was 
at her feet. 

Arthur Snow went up to pay her a compliment ; 
but Mrs. Dalton did not like Arthur Snow," and es- 
pecially now, when she had a vivid recollection that 
he had spoiled one of her best points. He offered 
her his pretty speech twice over, but she would not 
hear. He had to withdraw, and, stepping back 
without turning, he came in contact with Medhurst, 
who was crossing the stage. 

“ — you,” cried Arthur, “ what are you doing, 
— running against me like that ? I’ll ” — 

Medhurst looked at Arthur a moment, then seized 
him by the arm and walked him off the stage, 
through the scenes, across the little rear veranda, 
to the terrace, under the kindling stars. 

“ Now, look here, Mr. Arthur Snow,” said he. 
“ You have reached the limit. I have submitted to 
your impertinence through the play, because it was 
the ladies’ wish to carry it out pleasantly ; but the 
play is over. Just tell me what you mean by your 
insolence, your impudence, and your quarrelsome- 
ness ! ” 

Arthur was boiling over. Medhurst still held 
him in a vice ; he had a grip like iron, and muscle 
was not Arthur’s strong point ; he could neither 
wriggle nor throw it off. 

“ Talk to me of impudence and insolence ! ” said 
he ; “ you — a — a — intrusive, presumptuous, med- 
dling upstart ! ” 

Medhurst was fairly astonished. 


320 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“Have you a grudge against me?” said he. 

4 4 Have I done you wrong in any way ? ” 

Medhurst had not lost his temper ; he spoke in- 
cisively and irritably, but in a low voice. Arthur, on 
the other hand, screamed so loud that, but for 
the band playing inside, the whole house would have 
rung with his words. He presently burst into 
another tirade. 

44 Come, now,” said Medhurst, 44 1 should like to 
understand this. What have you got against me? 
I’ll not let you go until I shake it out of you.” 

44 You know well enough, — you, let me go!” 
roared Arthur. 

44 Tell me what it is, first.” 

44 You knocked me down,” declared Arthur, ap- 
parently quite forgetting how he had come to incur 
the attack. 

4 4 Knocked you down ! — when ? ” Medhurst’s mind 
ran hastily through his remembrance of the past 
few weeks. 

44 Do you mean to say,” he exclaimed, 44 that it 
was you I found, lurking like a thief, in the grap- 
ery?” 

44 1 had as much right to be there as you had. A 
better right! I wasn’t stealing interviews with 
young ladies. I wasn’t” — 

Medhurst uttered an exclamation of disgust. He 
let go his hold of the other’s arm, giving almost a 
push at the same time, which made Arthur stagger. 

44 You are beneath contempt. Go!” said he. 
44 Hereafter I’ll try to keep out of your way as I 
would out of a mad dog’s.” 

Arthur had by no means had out his say, but 


A SOIllftE DRAMATIQUE. 


321 


Medhurst seemed to him at the moment rather a 
dangerous character. There was something por- 
tentous in his look, and by this time Arthur knew 
the strength of his grip. He slunk off, glad 
that the interview had had neither listeners nor 
spectators. 

Medhurst sank down on the stone step of the 
terrace. lie was sick of it all ; he was sick of his 
life. He looked up at the stars ; he could almost 
have uttered a cry to them in his despair. He 
must get away from this, he said to himself ; he 
would speak to Mr. Ilaxtoun the next morning, and 
put an end to the engagement at once. Mr. Hill had 
written, offering him a very good place on the paper, 
in place of Morton, who had been appointed consul 
at Algiers. He would take it and go. This life was 
not bearable. He would see Mr. Ilaxtoun to-night 
instead of to-morrow. By going home at once he 
might very likely contrive an interview with the old 
gentleman before he went to bed. He started up 
on the instant. No sooner was he on his feet than 
he became aware that he was not alone. Within 
three feet of him, just behind one of the tall roses, 
was Cecil Haxtoun. Though there was no moon, 
yet it was not dark. He saw her distinctly. She 
had on the gown she had worn in the last act, pale 
blue, trimmed with swan’s-down. In this light it 
all looked alike, white as snow. 

“ You here ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ Yes, I followed you. I was afraid you and 
Arthur ” — 

“ Might quarrel? Forgive me for making a 
scene ; but he had taken pains to insult me.” 


322 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ I know it ; I have seen it. It is dreadful. I 
will speak to papa about it.” 

“ Oh, no matter ; no matter ! I shall see him no 
more. Nothing troubles me less than his exist- 
ence.” 

“Something does trouble you.” 

“Yes, — one thought.” 

It was strange that she should be there, so near, 
and at the moment when he was telling himself that 
he must put miles of earth between him and her. 
Everything separated them, — honor, duty, ever} 7 
bristling obstacle fate can impose ; and yet it was not 
enough. He must superimpose all the dead weight 
of separation, absence, absolutely diverging des- 
tinies. 

“ I wish,” she said softly, — “I wish ” — 

“ What do you wish? ” 

lie had drawn nearer to her. He could see her 
lovely, pale face, her half-frightened eyes on the 
point of tears. 

He could not help speaking. 

“ Do you know what it is to have one wish move 
you night and day, day and night, like a hunger, 
like a thirst, like” — 

He broke off. He gazed at her steadily. 

“lain going away,” he added, brusquely. ‘ 1 Shall 
you care?” 

“Going away, — going away from us?” she 
repeated. 

“Yes. Shall you care? Shall you remember 
me after a day, after a week, after a month?” 

She uttered a little cry ; she flung out both her 
hands. 


A SOIREE DRAMATIQUE. 


323 


“If I could know — if I could know,” he muttered, 
“ if you cared a little for me, I might” — 

She was trembling all over. 

Ten moments later neither of them could have told 
exactly how it had happened. Perhaps he seized 
her fluttering, outstretched hands, and then she fell 
upon his breast. At least, she was there, and he 
held her in a passionate, silent embrace. Neither 
needed any words. He felt firm and proud. She 
was his own ; no one should take her from him. 

“ Look up at me a moment,” he said, in her ear. 

She looked up. 

“You must go in now. You are an important 
guest. You will be missed.” 

She shivered. 

“ Don’t send me away.” 

He gave a little, proud laugh. 

“Listen to me,” said he. “You must go in. 
Meet me to-morrow morning, at seven o’clock, down 
by the old house.” 

‘'“Yes.” 

“ Say to me once, ‘ Frank, I love you.’ ” 

She repeated it after him, eloquently enough to 
his ear. He softly drew her to himself again and 
kissed her lips. 

“ Go in now, my own,” said he. He said it with 
some imperiousness ; and she obeyed him without 
another word. 


3 21 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS . 


CHAPTER XXII. 

TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 

C ECIL went swiftly towards the lighted house, 
conscious of a strength and happiness which 
would carry her safely through any ordeal. She 
did not know yet what she had done. She had not 
stopped to ask herself where she stood. For a time 
she had been powerless, — she had been in the 
meshes of her mother’s net ; she could not free her- 
self, nor could she cry out that she longed to free 
herself. She had felt stubborn, rebellious, but all 
the time had helped to tie herself hand and foot in 
knots which she longed to undo. Now she told 
herself that she was free, — free as air except as she 
was bound to Medhurst. What had become of her 
tacit engagement to Rodney Ileriot she did not 
ask. It was all a dream. Here was the reality. 
There was nothing delusive, phantom-like, unsub- 
stantial, about her love for Medhurst. It brought 
every vague, shadowy feeling into the focus of a 
strong light. All her thoughts were with him, all 
her wishes were with him. Why had she been 
doubtful? How could she have been afraid? It 
had strangely simplified matters to acknowledge her 
love for him. The world, which had for a few days 
seemed great, and wide, and strange to her, had 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


325 


suddenh T narrowed down ; she and Medhurst stood 
together in a world of their own. 

These thoughts swam through her mind as she 
entered the house, but no sooner was she in the brill- 
iant halls again, with vistas on either hand of the ga^ly 
dressed moving throngs, than the singleness of' her 
impressions vanished. She came upon her father 
almost directly. 

“Your mamma is looking for you,” said Mr. 
Haxtoun, with an air of resigned melancholy. 
“ Your mamma is so energetic, of late. Much as I 
appreciate the blessing of children, it must be con- 
fessed that a man destitute of offspring has a better 
chance of a quiet life.” 

“ I don’t mean to give you very much trouble, 
papa,” observed Cecil, taking his arm. 

“ I have had perpetual alarms about you, of late, 
my dear. And that night you were on the river 
with Mr. Medhurst, there ” — 

Mr. Haxtoun might have gone on to enumerate 
the various occasions when his wife’s superabun- 
dant anxiety had goaded him, spoiling his morning’s 
work and his evening’s pastime ; but Rodney Heriot, 
passing through the hall, espied Cecil, and sprang 
towards her. Ever since the curtain went down 
upon the stage he had been, until this moment, en- 
grossed by the claims of his guests ; but now he was 
free to devote the rest of his time to Cecil. 

“ Do you want to dance? ” he asked her. 

But no, she did not want to dance, she told him. 

“It is too warm to dance,” said Mr. Haxtoun; 
“ it would be very unsafe to take exercise with all the 
doors and windows open as they are here. That is 


326 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


the reason I do not sit down, but constantly walk 
about, — there are draughts every where ” — 

44 Except in the library, Mr. Haxtpun,” said Rod- 
ney. 44 G-o into the librar}', and shut all the win- 
dows. There are comfortable chairs there too ” — 

44 And will 3 T ou take care of Cecil? ” asked the old 
gentleman, who was quite bewildered and worn out, 
aud to whom this beacon beckoned enticingly. 

“ Yes,” said Rodnej^, 44 I will take care of Cecil.” 

He put her hand under his arm and looked down 
at her. Mr. Haxtoun had walked away. 44 I will 
take care of Cecil,” he said again. 

Cecil looked at him once, then blushed vividly 
and turned away. 

44 Heavens ! ” he exclaimed, almost as if to him- 
self alone. 44 How beautiful you are ! ” 

She tried to withdraw her hand from his arm, but 
he laughed, and would not let it go. 

44 Are you angry with me? ” he asked. 

44 Yes.” 

44 1 feel inclined to go on making you angry,” said 
Rodney, in his light manner. 44 Here, ever since 
yesterday, I have felt like going mad with ]oy ; but 
I have been obliged to walk steadily, to speak delib- 
erately, to give directions, to listen to people, and, 
finally, to go through this stupid pla}^. Do you 
want to know what I should like to do at this mo- 
ment? ” 

Without answering she turned and looked at him 
with her brilliant e} T es. What she intended to ex- 
press was something menacing and portentous, but 
her glowing face spoke to him far otherwise. 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


327 


“ Close your eyes,” said he ; “ they rob me of my 
senses.” 

She blushed still more furiously, and bent her 
head on her breast. 

Rodney began to feel conscience-stricken. He 
hated himself for talking to her as if he held her 
beauty a lure and her innocence something to regard 
carelessly. He wished that he had not defrauded 
himself of the rights and worth of his temperament 
by his habit of accepting loose, light, and reckless 
views of things. Nothing could be sweeter and 
more sacred than his present impressions of Cecil, 
but he seemed unable to say anything which did not 
offend and shock her. But why should she not 
know, he asked himself, all that was in his mind? 
Why did she not understand him and believe in him ? 
Was it because they were divided by so many years ? 

“ Do not be afraid of me,” said he. “You can 
hardly expect that I shall not be happy. I should 
be a dull fellow if I were not inexpressibly happy. 
I have always wanted happiness for im’self, but, 
hitherto, I have not been very successful in achiev- 
ing it. Let me try as I would for it, it failed me : I 
had disappointment, pain, sorrow, instead. Finally, 
I tried to teach myself that happiness did not exist 
for me ; that the desire for happiness is not im- 
planted in our minds because it is to have fruition ; 
but, instead, that it may inspire fresh ideals and re- 
stimulate our flagging energies. I began to believe 
that self-renunciation, self-abnegation, was the only 
true source of peace. If that were so” He 
looked at her, and almost in spite of himself tender, 
foolish words came from his lips. 


328 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Cecil had grown pale. 

‘ Is not this a little out of place?” she asked, in 
a proud, still manner. “ You would hardly care to 
be listened to, or observed.” 

“ I will be on my good behavior. Let us be talk- 
ing about something. There must be subjects in the 
world to talk about. There are times when life 
does not seem long enough to discuss the matters 
that come up. The universe seems such an extraor- 
dinary development. But at present it is of more 
interest to me that you have little white hands, that 
those little white hands have little tapering fingers, 
and that on one of those little tapering fingers I 
must ” — 

“I thought,” said Cecil, with a swift gesture of 
disdain, “ you were ready to talk about something 
sensible.” 

“ Now, I thought that so sensible. But let us 
discuss gems. What kind of gems do you prefer? ” 

u I don’t like any gems,” said Cecil. 

“ Don’t you? I think diamonds or pearls in your 
hair would be ” — 

“ I dislike diamonds and pearls,” persisted Cecil. 
“ Nothing would induce me to wear them.” 

Rodney laughed. He liked the pretty, mutinous 
air. They had been walking slowly along the hall, 
and by this time had reached the picture-gallery, 
which, divested of its benches the moment the play 
was over, was now the ball-room. Enough dancing 
was going on to make it a pretty pageant, but the 
scene was not very gay. Alec Haxtoun was one of 
the few men who danced, and even he was a little 
aggrieved at being obliged to be on duty on so hot 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


329 


a night. He had been waltzing with Mrs. Dalton 
as a reward for keeping up the entertainment ; but 
now she had sat down to talk with the manager, Mr. 
Stein, and Alec was looking about him disconso- 
late!}’, wondering if he had not made himself perspire 
sufficiently, when he caught sight of his sister. 

“Going to dance, Cis?” he said, coming up to 
her. 

“Oh, yes ; if you ask me,” replied Cecil. 

“ I will ask you,” said Alec. “ Mrs. Est6 begged 
me to keep up the dancing, and I know no other 
way than to go on whirling perpetually. Nobody 
dances nowadays, — none but girls, that is. Talk 
about the relative strength of the sexes ; a woman 
can waltz as if she were strung on wire, while a 
man becomes a mass of quivering jelly. I’m a mere 
pulp ; but I will give you one waltz, Cissy. You 
don’t dance, Heriot?” 

“ No, I don’t dance. Not but that I might, in 
spite of my age. The only objection is, that I should 
not like to dance set figures. If I could execute a 
pas seul now, just to express my feelings ! ” 

“Do,” said Cecil. “Every one would be de- 
lighted to see something original and spontaneous 
in the way of a dance.” 

“ I don’t know,” pursued Alec, still aggrieved, 
“what the gradual evolution of manners and cus- 
toms will be ; but, looking at present indications, it 
really seems to me that there will soon be no 
dancing men. Everybody is so deadly serious nowa- 
days ; there is no laissez-aller about us young fel- 
lows ; our boots are too tight, our clothes fit too 
well, our hair is too smooth.” 


330 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Exactly,” said Rodney. “ Fifty years from 
now I fancy the social usage will be somewhat ori- 
ental ; the men will sit on crimson velvet divans, 
smoking languidly, while the young girls dance for 
their own amusement and masculine edification.” 

Alec and Cecil were already moving away, and 
Rodney stood looking after the brother and sister, 
who danced with the perfection of constant habit. 
The childlike freshness of the young girl, her pliant 
grace, made her appear to be inspired by the music 
of the waltz ; but, in fact, her heart was very heavy. 

“I want to go home,” she said to her brother. 
“ Waltz on towards the staircase, and then find 
mamma.” 

“ What is the matter? Are you tired?” 

“ No.” 

“ Supper is not ready yet.” 

“ I had forgotten supper,” said Cecil, who felt 
feverishly restless and impatient to get away. 
“ Then I suppose it is of no use for me to 
think of getting mamma to consent.” 

Rodney walked about as impatient as Cecil. The 
scanty chance he had to utter what was in his heart 
to the young girl mocked, rather than assuaged, the 
passion of his soul. The joyous music filled him 
with a sort of sadness. A single strain of it seemed 
to pursue him, haunting him when he was at a dis- 
tance from the band, and when nearer coming with 
a sudden burst from the flute and violins. He was 
half-amused and half-proud to realize how deeply 
he was in love, he who had so long been an ama- 
teur, a connoisseur, that he had believed himself 
incapable of any simple, unmixed emotion. He had 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


331 


not recognized his feeling at first. He had felt the 
thrall of it, but without any belief that his state of 
mind was to become fixed and permanent. What did 
Cecil’s mysterious charm come from? Why had 
she so completely bewitched him ? Perhaps it was 
because he was no longer young, that half-forgotten 
loves, ambitions, aspirations, had haunted him, in- 
spiring dissatisfaction and remorse, and that she 
restored them. 

As he moved restlessly about Fanny Dalton beck- 
oned to him. Mr. - Stein had been complimenting 
her on the success of the play. Now that it was 
over, the manager, who had found every fault 
while it was in progress, could not sufficiently 
praise the nicety and perfection of the acting, the 
promising condition of the whole troupe ; he add- 
ing, of course, the warmest encomiums for Fanny 
herself, who he declared had only to come before 
the great public to receive universal recognition. 
She had, he said, by the mere talent for taking 
pains with her work, overcome all the hardest 
obstacles in her way ; she had the wit to see what 
were the essential points, and these she had seized : 
a brilliant future was before her. 

Fanny, however, was a little petulant and irri- 
tated. What had her triumph to-night been after 
all ? In spite of her painstaking efforts to achieve 
a legitimate success, Cecil, without artistic instinct 
or knowledge, had equalled, if not surpassed, her. 

The girl’s beauty, the general admiration she 
elicited from her well-known position, the peculiar 
suitability of the role she had assumed, were all in 
her favor. The eclat had been an accident. But 


332 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Fanny realized that every one who sets himself a 
task is at the mercy of unforeseen malign forces in 
some shape, but, all the same, actual lions in the 
path to be contended against and conquered. Mrs. 
Dalton wanted to be sure of easy successes; she 
wanted them, too, to be successes which belonged 
only to first-class artists. And when Mr. Stein 
compared her to certain actresses already on the 
stage there was some disillusionment. 

“What do you think Mr. Stein tells me?” she 
asked Rodney Heriot, after beckoning him to 
approach. 

“ That you are a very brilliant actress.” 

“That goes without saying,” put in Mr. Stein. 
“ What I say is, that she is sure of a good engage- 
ment if she will only go upon the stage.” 

“But then,” exclaimed Fanny, “Mr. Stein’s 
ideas and mine are so different concerning an 
engagement. So long as a castle is in the air it 
assumes quite palatial proportions, but once set it 
down on terra fir ma, and look at it soberly, and its 
peaks and pinnacles appear for what they are worth. 
He tells me where I can act, and What my salary 
will be by the week, and all the magnificence goes 
out of my scheme. I thought I might make a great 
deal of money.” 

“ And so you can, and so you shall,” insisted Mr. 
Stein. “ You must not, of course, expect the great 
gains of a queen of the operatic stage ; but as a 
comedy actress ” — 

Mr. Stein went on eloquently, but to Fanny the 
brilliancy of the career was tarnished, its successes 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


333 


questionable, its promises futile. The play had dis- 
appointed her. 

“ Miss Haxtoun carried off all the honors,” said 
she. 

“Miss Haxtoun,” almost shrieked Mr. Stein, — 
“ she cannot act. She has the archness, the 
vivacity, the piquancy, of a kitten, whose gambols 
are irresistible when it is in the mood, but 
who ” — 

“ Is not equal to a trained dog, for instance,” said 
Rodney. “Oh, you will be in a better mood to- 
morrow, Fanny. You feel the reaction from the 
champagne of the play. That is the curse of artists, 
actors, and authors, — their spirits come and go like 
the tide.” 

But the most philosophical of reflections could not 
banish the miserable, almost inexplicable, discontent 
that darkened Fanny’s hour, which ought to have 
been one of complete triumph. Success is a deli- 
cate fruit, and loses its flavor if it falls and is 
scrambled for. 

“Ask me to dance,” she whispered to Rodney 
Heriot. 

He complied, and she rose, took his arm, and 
walked away. 

“ I hope you do not think I am going to dance,” 
he remarked, when they were out of hearing of the 
fussy, zealous little Mr. Stein, whose coveted praise 
had suddenly lost all its worth. Had she failed she 
would have felt nothing of all tins disgust ; she felt 
it by virtue of a sense only acquired by what seems 
to an imaginative person a half-success. 

“ No, I do not want to dance,” declared Fanny. 


334 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“I no longer feel young. I no longer care about 
the satisfactions of youth. I want, instead, the 
consolations of middle life.” 

“That is what I am after as well as you,” said 
Rodney. 

“Does Miss Haxtoun belong to that category?” 
inquired Fann} r . 

Rodney said nothing, and she went on. 

“ I begin to feel that there is a fatality about that 
girl. There are people by whom it is foredoomed 
that we shall suffer. She looks innocent ; like a 
kitten, as Mr. Stein says. But she meets me at 
every turn tormenting and thwarting me. It is not 
a fair contest ; she has superior weapons to mine, 
and I grow disheartened and throw down my arms. 
I had taught myself to bear other things with com- 
placency ; but when she entered my own field, and 
surpassed me on the stage, that was too milch 
humiliation.” 

Rodney listened, half-amused. He knew that 
Fanny was really annoyed, and that she bore Cecil 
a grudge, and longed to revenge herself. He felt a 
little curious to kuow what she was about to say, 
how she would substantiate her words. She rarely 
talked at random ; she habitually sought to create 
an effect, and theie T^as no doubt but that she 
wanted to move him now. He experienced a desire 
to laugh, but, instead, turned to her with an exagger- 
ated seriousness and repeated : — 

“ Too much humiliation ! Don’t say that.” 

Fanny laughed slightly. 

“ What a tragical tone ! I shall survive it. I 

am used to failures. I am a failure all through. 

© 

; \ 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


335 


But she might have left me my old love. I always 
used to think I could reckon on Frank Med- 
hurst.” 

“ Oh, you are thinking about Medhurst ? ” asked 
Rodney, with some eagerness. “ By-the-by, I saw 
him in a fine fury, the other day. He was quite 
out of humor with his life, — declared he was going 
away.” 

“ Did he tell you why?” 

“No; but the position has always fretted him; 
and, indeed, what man of any real mental energy 
could go on with old Haxtoun?” 

“He is in love with Mr. Haxtoun’s daughter,” 
said Fanny, looking her companion in the face. 

“ I dare say he admires her,” exclaimed Rodney. 
“ Don’t make me think you are morbidly jeatous 
where she is concerned.” 

“ I know everything about it,” said Fanny, “ Do 
you want me to tell } r ou what I know?” 

She spoke with the utmost sweetness, yet there 
was something pointed, and even menacing, in 
her tone. The two were standing near a window in 
the main parlor. The supper-room was open, and 
people were going and coming, and servants were 
passing about with trays of ices and champagne 
«ups. 

“I do not believe you know anything,” said 
Rodney. “ And, if you did, what right have you to 
tell it? If it is a secret confided to you, certainly 
you should be silent ; and if yoi^ have surprised it, 

of course then it must be forever buried in your 

own mind. If Medhurst admires Miss Haxtoun he 
has a/i’ight to admire her. That he was actually in 


336 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


love with her would be his misfortune. He is au 
honorable fellow, and would not allow himself to be 
led captive by any such feeling.” 

Rodney’s manner was cold, and almost brusque. 

“Wait a moment,” said Fanny. “Remember 
how much the matter means to me. I had no doubt, 
at first, that Frank was faithful to me ; and when 
I found him half-indifferent I believed that he was 
unforgiving. I had done him a great wrong when 
he was a naive , passionate, clever boy ; and I could 
hardly blame him if he refused to accept me on the 
old terms. I tried to show him my remorse ; but I 
presently made the discovery that he was well over 
even his anger with me. He had dismissed his 
youthful feeling,, and was wholly engrossed by some- 
thing newer, fresher, and, besides, more promising.” 

“ I confess,” said Rodney, with apparent in- 
difference, “ at one time I thought Medhurst was a 
little in love with that young lady. But the impres- 
sion passed. You came, and certainly he seemed 
to be devoted to you.” 

“ But he was not. He denied his real feeling ; he 
was visited by compunctions with regard to you. He 
hated, besides, the idea that he had nothing to lose, 
and everything to gain ” — 

Rodney made a gesture for her to be silent. A 
strange feeling, made up of doubt, alarm, stupor, and 
rage, took possession of him. He had suspected 
that something was going on, — he had not been 
blind, — but he had found it easier to trust his 
fellow-creatures than to impute bad motives to them. 

There seemed to be some black, unknown gulf of 
knowledge into which Fanny longed to plunge him, 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


337 


and he trembled at the ordeal; bat what matter, 
after all? What did anything count? Suppose 
Medhurst cared for Cecil, — suppose, indeed, Cecil 
cared for him? If it were a mere feeling, uncon- 
fessed, unspoken — Had Medhurst once presumed 
to acquaint Cecil with his feelings — His anger 
grew : he should know how to punish a fellow like 
that, who stole into a girl’s confidence. He was all 
tense, alert, ready to spring. The music, which had 
ceased for a time, began again with some old, worn, 
but sweet, Italian aria. 

“Girls generally have several suitors,” Rodney 
now remarked blandly. 44 Miss Haxtoun deserves 
as many as the most charming of them.” 

“ She has accepted one to-night,” said Fanny, 
with a soft voice and a dazzling smile. 

4 4 To-night ? ” 

44 Yes, to-night, on the terrace, —just after the 
play was over.” 

Rodney stood still, his arms tightly folded. 

Fanny’s voice sounded strange to him, as if some 
one else were speaking. Had he heard aright? No, 
this was some trick of phrase, some joke ; at -least 
the thing was an accident, he need not adjust his 
consciousness to it. The reason it had struck him 
with so much force was that he alone knew the 
absurdity of it. 

44 As you say,” she went on, 44 having come acci- 
dentally upon the declaration and acceptance, and 
unwittingly seen her in his arms ” — 

44 Oh, come!” said Rodney, in a voice of dis- 
gust. He looked at her indignantly and reproach- 
fully. His lips curled scornfully. 44 Let us go and 


338 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


have a glass of champagne/’ said he. “The rush 
is over in the supper-room, and we may be able to 
sit down and eat a cream-ice comfortably.” 

“You are not angry with me, are you, Rodney?” 
Fanny asked, with a little tremulousness in her 
voice. She began to believe that she had erred in 
judgment, and would have tried, if she could, to 
repair her error; but his closed lips expressed such 
disdain she felt a sort of confusion, wholly doubted 
herself, and wondered why she had permitted her 
tongue to utter the words she had been eager to 
force upon him. 

Rodney led her into the supper-room, put her in a 
chair, and called the butler to her. Then he walked 
to the sideboard and took up a decanter of brandy, 
and poured out a small glass. He gazed into it a 
moment, scrutinizing it as if it were something to be 
analyzed and studied, then lifted it to his lips. lie 
set it down untasted, however. 

“ No, I won’t do this yet, at all events,” he said, 
half-aloud. 

He looked about the dining-room, then went out 
and glanced into every room by turns. He was 
looking for Cecil, but found her nowhere. He 
encountered Alec Haxtoun presentty, who was 
walking up and down at the foot of the staircase, 
talking with Arthur Snow, who, even to Rodney 
Heriot’s perceptions, ordinarily very careless con- 
cerning this young man, was in some peculiar state 
of agitation. Alec, however, received his torrent 
of incoherent words wdth anything but serious- 
ness. 

“ Look here, Heriot,” said he, with a burst of 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


339 


laughter, “ you have been everywhere, done every- 
thing, and you must know the code of honor and all 
its etiquette. Here’s a young fellow who wants to 
fight a duel, and you may be able to help him.” 

“Whom does he want to kill?” inquired Rod- 
ney, — “Stein, the manager? He was hard on you, 
Snow.” 

“It isn’t Stein, — it’s Medhurst,” said Alec, laugh- 
ing again. 

“Medhurst?” repeated Rodney, with some sur- 
prise. “What has Medhurst done?” He, too, 
began to laugh. “ Medhurst seems to be turning 
everything topsy-turvy,” he remarked. 

“ Well, will you be Arthur’s second?” 

“ With all my heart. Shall I wait on Medhurst 
to-night or to-morrow morning?” 

Snow turned very sulky. “ You are making fun 
of me,” said he; “but I am intensely serious. 
Medhurst has insulted me, and I want satisfaction. 
I don’t know about duels, — they seem to be obso- 
lete, — but there ought to be some sort of repara- 
tion.” 

“ Oh, fight him! Revive the duel, — shoot him 
or stab him,” said Alec. 

“ He insulted you, did he?” asked Rodney, look- 
ing at Snow’s fierce, puckered face. “Ah, well, 
you know we are highly civilized and perfectly 
Christian nowadays ! If he smites one cheek turn 
the other ; be patient, be generous, — or else go and 
knock him down.” 

“But he began bj^ knocking Arthur down,” said 
Alec. 


340 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“He seems to be the devil of a fellow,” said 
Rodney. 

It was possible that Arthur had taken a little too 
much wine, or else he was lighter-headed than usual. 

“ I could make you quarrel with him, Heriot,” he 
now said malignantly. “ You had better look out 
that he does not undermine you with ” — 

“Hold your tongue, you idiot!” said Rodney, 
angrily. “ Haxtoun, get this quarrelsome cur out 
of the way, won’t you? I won’t have him blabbing 
his maudlin nonsense in this house. Here come the 
ladies.” 

And at that moment Mrs. Haxtoun, Miss Win- 
chester, and Cecil appeared on the stairs ; Cecil fol- 
lowing the other two, and carrying on her arm a 
soft white mantle, which seemed all made of feathers 
and down. Rodne}^ went up to her as she reached 
the lowest stair. 

“ I have been looking for you,” said he. 

He took the cloak from her and stood blocking 
her way. She was raised a little above him, and he 
looked up into her face with a persistent interroga- 
tion in his own ; his forehead was contracted, his 
eyes imperious, his lips tightty closed. 

“I don’t know,” he murmured, “whether to let 
you go or not. It seems safer to keep you. Who 
knows what may happen ? ” 

She did not answer a word. She could not even 
sustain his glance. A scorching sensation of shame 
consumed her. 

“ I shall see you to-morrow,” he said, gently. 

He stepped aside and allowed her to pass, and, 
following her, put the cloak over her shoulders and 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


341 


drew the hood over her head . She turned and looked 
at him while he did this with a soft, childlike glance, 
a little embarrassed, but very sweet and gracious. 

“ Do you know what you have done for me?” he 
asked. 

She shook her head. 

“ Drawn away my good, useful, comfortable heart, 
and put a thorn in its place.” 

Mrs. Haxtoun was already in the carriage, and 
now called to her daughter. She also addressed 
Rodney, but he did not seem to hear her. Some- 
body else put Cecil in, and shut the door. Rodney 
stood on the porch for a while, in a sort of stupor, 
conscious of an intense heaviness weighing upon 
him without admitting to himself what it was. He 
was afraid to give way to passion ; he was afraid to 
be alone, lest he should become violent and agitated. 
The guests were leaving singly and in groups. He 
stood aside and let them pass, without turning his 
face from the shadow. When the last carriage had 
rolled away, he went in, and found his mother and 
Mrs. Dalton sitting in the parlor, the former drink- 
ing bouillon . 

“I wondered where you were, Rodney,” said 
Mrs. Esffi. “You left it all for me to do.” 

“ Of course I did.” 

“ I am so warm, and so veiy, very tired. There 
were so many people, and I had to remember their 
names and something about their families. It is so 
hard to remember people’s names.” 

“ The deuce of a bore ! They ought to have little 
labels affixed ; or why shouldn’t they be signed, like 
pictures ? ” 


342 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Then I should have to get out my eye-glass to 
read the signatures,” said Mrs. Este. “ And, after 
all, what is the use of knowing their names? All 
the men and women I used to know and care about 
are dead, and the new ones tire me. They know 
nothing about what used to be my delight and my 
comfort. I can turn to none of them and say, ‘ Do 
you remember when we were there together, that 
day?’ or, ‘What was it we were doing when he 
came ? ’ Nobody knows my past ; it is all locked 
up in my own mind, and when I get a glimpse of it 
it is like a Medusa’s head, — it strikes me dead.” 

“ Good gracious ! ” exclaimed Rodne} T . “ Our 
generation can’t talk like that.” 

“ No, indeed. I don’t like the present genera- 
tion. I am tired of my kingdom, Rodney. I am 
ready to pass it all over to you. You shall have a 
beautiful young wife, and she shall have my place.” 

Mrs. Est6 rose. She was dressed magnificently, 
in point and diamonds ; she wore a little coronet on 
her white curls. She was very feeble, nevertheless ; 
she tottered across to her son, and lifted her cheek 
to be kissed. lie flung his arms about her, instead, 
and embraced her ardently. 

“O my old mother!” he muttered, “my old 
mother ! ” 

She fluttered away from his arms with the air of 
a bird smoothing down her ruffled plumage. 

“ You are as rough as you used to be as a boy,” 
said she. “ Good-night ! Good-night, Fanny ! ” And 
she went off on her maid’s arm. 

Mrs. Dalton made a very pretty picture coiled up 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


343 

on a sofa, watching the little scene between her half- 
closed eyelids. 

“ Have you forgiven me? ” she asked, when they 
were alone. 

Rodney turned and bent upon her a piercing look. 
He said to himself that she was very pertinacious, 
and that such pertinacity must have some cause. 

“Forgive you!” said he. “I have nothing to 
forgive that I remember. Certainly, I have no anger 
against you.” 

“Iam glad of that.” 

“On the contrary, I admire you,” pursued Rod- 
ney ; “you look very well — half-sitting, half-re- 
clining, there. It is impossible not to acknowledge 
the bewitchingness of that attitude, with your bare 
arms raised to the back of 3 T our head.” 

Fanny laughed. 

“ You are an artist, — you see the picture, not the 
woman.” 

“ The artist in me only makes me appreciate you 
the more,” persisted Rodney. “I am thinking 
about yourself* and not } T our beauty, at this moment. 
I am suddenly curious concerning you.” 

“ If I could believe that ! ” 

“You may. I was thinking about what you said of 
Medhurst, — that you had looked forward to seeing 
him attentive, humble, devoted, again. Of course, 
it could have been so, if you had desired it. I fancy 
he discovered some indifference in you. Perhaps 
you were too lukewarm. Once interested in a man 
you would not readily let him escape.” 

I don’t feel sure whether that is flattery or re- 
proach.” 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


344 

“ Men are like children : they like light, warmtli, 
and companionship ; the} 7, hate silence, darkness, 
and solitude. These influences are all-powerful. If 
you had cared, or seemed to care, for Medhurst he 
would have returned to you at once. You are not 
a woman whom men forget. You have had your 
mind on something else, — the play, perhaps. Or 
is there some other man in your thoughts? I am not 
asking, you know. I am merely speaking my 
thoughts aloud.” 

He paused and looked at her. She had grown 
pensive ; her eyes were bent on the floor ; a little 
color tinged her cheek. 

“ I think,” she said, softly, “you understand 
me.” 

“ I should like to see 3*011 in love,” he continued. 
“Yon are proud ; you have self-restraint; } r ou are 
not given to lavish sentiment. If your heart once 
fully awoke ” — 

She raised her eyes and fixed them on him. 

“ You are enigmatical,” she said. 

“If your heart once fully awoke,” he pursued, 

it would carry you a long way. But the question 
is, could your heart be fully aroused? Could you 
fall in love?” 

Fanny half rose, then sank back on the sofa. 
She was a little agitated, and her features all 
showed the effort of self-repression. One would 
have said, too, that it was a joyful emotion, almost 
a triumph, to which she was half yielding. 

Rodney regarded her with singular composure. 

“ Tell me,” he now said softly. 

For answer she only lifted her eyes and looked 


TOO CLEVER BY HALF. 


345 

at him, and still, with her glance fixed on him, she 
stood up. 

“I had better say good-night. It is late,” she 
murmured. 

“Yes, it is late, — you had better say good- 
night,” said Rodney, approaching her. “ I wish 
you would tell me first,” he went on, “ who it is you 
love.” 

Fanny shook from head to foot, as if she were 
cold. 

“ Somebody who does not love me in return,” 
she exclaimed, with a swift anger. “Somebody 
at whose feet I might throw myself, but who wpuld 
not even stoop to pick me up. Somebody whom 
I love as he has never been loved, and will never 
be loved again.” 

Rodney looked at her with a cool, attentive 
look. “Generous Fanny!” he said softty, and 
took her hand. 

“What did you mean?” she cried, her face 
frowning suddenly as black as a thunder-cloud. She 
felt that she had been insulted and humiliated, but 
yet was chiefly in a fury with herself for having 
been led on against her reason and against her will, 
dazzled by the delusive hope his words held out. 
She tried to tear her hand away from him ; but he 
held it fast, and would not let it go, not seeming to 
perceive either her anger or her agitation. 

“Must you go?” he asked, in a drowsy voice. 
“ Ah, well, sleep sweetly, Fanny!” 

He led her to the door with an air of chivalrous 
courtesy, and then raised her hand as if to imprint 


346 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS . 


a kiss upon it. But it was a mere form ; he bent 
his head, then raised it with a smiling air. 

“ Good-night ! ” he said again, and then closed 
the door after- her. Left alone in the parlor where 
all the lights were still burning, he said to him- 
self:— 

“She is a devil of a woman!” 





“HAD I WIST BEFORE I HIST” 347 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

11 HAD I WIST BEFORE I KIST.” 

J UST between the old Haxtoun house and the 
river was a densely shaded little nook, over- 
hung by vines and creepers, which, finding no 
longer a foothold on the stone-walls, turned for sup- 
port to the nearest tree, which they had dwarfed 
and twisted into the shape of a bamboo. Late in 
the day this quiet niche was dark as night, beneath 
the thick greenery, but the early morning sun 
searched it through with its first beams ; and it was 
here that Medhurst waited for Cecil. He had left 
the house long before sunrise, for he had scarcely 
slept at all. Towards morning he had been 
suddenly overtaken by slumber, which lasted but 
a few moments, but which was sufficient to mark 
the dividing line between yesterday and to-day. 
He had gone to sleep still under the dominion of 
the imperious sentiment which had made it easy for 
him to accept the young girl’s love. The barriers 
between them were all down : she was sweet and 
precious to him : she was necessary, beyond all 
things necessar3’, and she was his. He had sunk 
into unconsciousness, feeling that he clasped and 
possessed the treasure of the world. He awoke 
presently in quite a different mood. He rose. 


348 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS . 


dressed, and went out of doors, while the auroral 
vapors were vanishing. The sky grew rosy, then 
pearl} 7 ; luminous clouds floated over the east ; but 
he had no eyes for the glories of the new day. He 
said to himself, as he paced the damp turf, that he 
knew the sensations of a man who recovers his 
reason after an interval of insanity, and finds that, 
carried away by his delirium, he has committed a 
heinous crime. He sank in his self-respect when he 
remembered that, by accident, by the merest momen- 
tary impulse, he had done the very thing he had 
sworn to himself he would never do. He had been 
conquered by the sight of the young girl in the half- 
light, her eyes fixed on him, her lips tremulous, her 
little hands fluttering towards him, and he had not 
tried to resist the sorcery of this magical tempta- 
tion. A burning fire ran through his veins still, as 
he remembered that moment ; yet the keenest self- 
reproach governed him. She was so young, so. in- 
experienced ; he had declared to himself, over and 
over, that he would save ,her from her own gener- 
osity. Had he been out of his senses? If the reve- 
lation of feeling had been the end of it he might 
have carried the precious, potent memory to the end 
of his days, and have been the richer for it. But to 
have leaped into the position of accepted lover, the 
prospective husband of this young princess ! The 
idea was preposterous ; wildly, frantically absurd. 
He was ashamed of himself that, even for a moment, 
this revolting incongruity had seemed no incongru- 
ity at all, but a delightful and perfected ideal of 
existence. It was spoliation ; it was robbery to 
deprive her of her happy, girlish life and offer her iu 


“ HAD I WIST BEFORE I KIST ” 349 


return a share of his own tame, meagre, shabby 
existence. And he had never had any intention of 
doing it. He seemed to have been swept on by a 
current of outside forces, apparently powerless to 
resist. Now that the vivid impression upon his 
imagination had faded away he was ready to 
impute the worst motives to himself, to find himself 
wholly without excuse for his conduct. There was 
no logical gap between his state of mind of yester- 
day and to-day into which he could interpolate this 
bewildering episode. 

The glamour, the extraordinary naivete of his 
state of mind, the night before, was the most sur- 
prising thing in his experience. 

The day was well awake by this time. The 
river was flashing with motion and light. There 
were indistinct murmurs, movings, and heatings all 
through the shrubberies and grass. Birds were 
darting everywhere, whirring, clamoring with an 
exuberance, of energy ; the drone of the insects 
had begun. Med hurst looked at his watch. 
Two hours had passed since he came down from 
his room ; it was nearing seven o’clock. Would 
Cecil keep the appointment he had so imperiously 
made ? He seemed to see her lying on her pillow, 
like a lily, half-asleep, half-waking, the white 
petals just unclosed. Before her mind would be 
floating a diaphanous and rose-colored mist of 
memories and hopes ; in this half daylight of her 
thoughts she would remember the kiss he had 
given her the night before. Would it be with a 
smile on her parted lips, and a laugh in her rich 
eyes, or with a blush and a sudden quickening of 


350 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


some nameless terror, which made her turn and 
hide her face, perhaps annihilated sentiment, pas- 
sion, tenderness, at a breath? 

But he could not think of her without melting. 
He had it in his heart to wish that she had been 
more proud, more consistent, less generous, less 
Seductive. Yet, just as she had been, just as she 
was, he worshipped her. What had she seen in 
him to believe in, trust, and cling to? If he were 
worthy, how was she to know it? And yet, in 
some dim wa} T , the instinct of faith in him had 
moved her from the first. All at once he re- 
membered the night he had rowed her up the river, 
and the heavens above and the waters below 
them glowed with the colors of the sunset, and 
the atmosphere about them, seemed magicalty lit. 

Certainly he was in a strange frame of mind : 
on the one side led by all the illusions of a pas- 
sionate love, and, on the other, restrained, domi- 
nated, tyrannized over. Twice he had thought he 
saw a white dress in the distance ; but once it was 
the trunk of a white birch, which the swaying 
branches first hid, and then disclosed ; then it 
was the gleam of the opening lilies, which he 
mistook for Cecil’s shining raiment. But now, all 
at once, his heart began to beat swiftly and 
strongly. It was no error of his senses this time. 
The young girl herself was coming down the walk, 
a little slowly, a little abashed, with childlike 
intentness and seriousness diffused over her whole 
face and manner. 

Involuntarily Medhurst started up. He was 


“ HAD I WIST BEFOBE I KIST .” 351 


ready to fall on his knees. A strong sense of the 
reality of all that had passed between them surged 
back, governing his consciousness. He was not 
worthy of her, but she had sought him out ; she 
had made him her equal ; she had given him her 
love ; and could he not be grateful, could he not be 
loyal? Was she not the embodiment of all he 
loved best in the world? Her clear, frank glance 
as she approached sent peace into his very soul. 
But, as he went forward to meet her, he did not 
even touch her hand. 

“It was good of you to come,” he said softly. 
“ Sit down.” 

She sat down on the bench at the foot of the tree, 
and he took his place by her side. She wore a 
wide-brimmed hat, which, as she leaned her chin 
upon her hand, hid all but the rosy oval of the 
cheek and the milk-white throat. Medhurst could 
see that she was trembling ; her fingers fluttered, 
and he laid his own upon them. 

“Tell me, Cecil,” said he, u are you of the same 
mind you were last evening? What did you think 
of when you awoke, — that you were mine?” He 
went on, with increasing agitation : “ Has that little 
flutter of kind feeling lasted all night, or are you 
more clear-eyed now, and do you see me as I am ? ” 

For answer she lifted her head and turned her 
lovely face towards him, so radiant, so dazzling, 
that he felt almost blinded by it; then, all at once, 
with a bird’s swiftness, she stooped and leaned her 
cheek against his hand. 

“ You know,” said he, “ that I am a beggar. I 
can give you no luxuries, — none. I will try to take 


352 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


care of you so that you need know no suffering, no 
great privation ; but, Heaven help me, I seem to be an 
unlucky man. Hitherto I have not prospered, and 
I may not prosper in the years to come.” 

She looked at him and smiled. “Iam not poor,” 
she whispered. “ I have money of my own.” 

He dropped her hand and started up. “ Don’t 
say that; don’t think of it yourself,” he exclaimed, 
throwing off the suggestion as if it stung him. “ For 
me to come here, — to steal your love ; to profit by 
it, — that would be the final humiliation. I had no 
right ever to think of you, none. I knew it all the 
time. I had no intention of speaking to you last 
night, but the words burst from me. I — I ” — 
.Cecil was gazing at him as if fascinated. 

“ It was I who was to blame,” she faltered. 

This innocent speech almost cost him the rem- 
nants of his self-control. 

“You know,” said he, “ I had decided to go 
away.” 

“ But you could not have gone away,” said Cecil. 
“ Do you know that I dreamed last night that you 
were gone ? ” 

She looked up at him, half-smiling, haTf-reproach- 
ful. 

“ Let your dream come true,” said he, with a su- 
preme effort". “I will go away. All you have to 
do is to go back to the house now, and never think 
of me again. You need be troubled by me no 
more. I feel it — I know it — I have neither part 
nor lot in your life.” 

He was conscious of his harshness, of his brutality 
even. But only two courses seemed open to him, — 


“HAD I WIST BEFORE I KIST .” 353 


either to clasp her to liis heart, or to fling her from 
him. He must either be tender or be hard ; he was 
not strong enough to be both. She listened to him 
at first with a face of ardent remonstrance, which 
gradually changed into a sort of white despair. 
There was silence for a long moment after he had 
finished, when she continued to gaze at him ; then 
she rose. Tears had rushed to her eyes and blinded 
her, and a little, choking sob met his ear. Med- 
hurst was seized by a strange feeling. He saw that 
she took him at his word : that she was about to go, 
and he knew it was better that she should leave him. 
When she went she would take everything from him ; 
but, at least, he had done his duty, and freed her from 
the consequences of her mistake. But, at the sound 
of the sob, something stronger than his logic or his 
will clutched at his consciousness. He put his hand 
on her dress to detain her a moment. 

“ You know,” he said, terribly agitated, “ that I 
love you with my whole heart, — that — it — kills — 
me — to — give — you — up.” 

She sank back on the seat, covered her face with 
her hands, and broke into overflowing sobs and tears. 

“ But what I mean is,” he went on, “ that my 
love counts for nothing. I can give up the woman 
I love — but not the woman who loves me.” 

She looked up at him a moment, and "they both 
smiled. 

“If you really love me,” she began, in a broken 
voice. 

“ If l love you,” repeated Medhurst, still smiling. 

“But do you?” she demanded, her whole tear- 
stained face full of entreaty. 


354 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ I don’t dare trust myself/’ said Medhurst ; and 
it was exactly as he had said — that he was afraid to 
trust himself. “ I should be glad enough to feel that 
our destiny is chosen, — that nothing can alter it. 
But I know — my reason tells me there is no fatality 
about this — a choice is still open to you. I do 
not feel that I have the right to shut down all the 
doors of your fate except the one which opens on 
me. If circumstances were different; if you had 
no other suitor” — 

Cecil made a gesture of despair. 

You are cruel to speak of him,” she said, as if 
heart-broken. “I told you I dreamed last night 
that you had gone away. I knew that you were 
gone, and would never come back. I knew, too, 
that I could never follow you, and all that re- 
mained for me was to be Mr. Heriot’s wife. He was 
talking to me and looking at me, smiling all the time 
just as he had smiled in the evening; and I hated 
him. I longed to be free of him. It was a great 
miser3* ; it weighed on my heart ; it turned me 
cold and sick, and I said to myself, I must somehow 
be free. I must wrench myself away. But when I 
tried to do it he would not let me go ; he held me 
tight, and at the horror of this I woke up, and, oh, I 
sobbed with joy that it was not true, — that you had 
not gone away ; that you w^ere here to decide for me 
— to be strong for me.” 

Medhurst had fallen on his knees before her. 

“ How can you prefer me to Heriot?” he asked, 
looking into her face. “ Heriot has everything ; he 
is more attractive than I am, a thousand times more 


“ HAD I WIST BEFORE I KIST .” 


355 


attractive, and far cleverer. On my word, I believe 
you ought to be in love with Heriot.” 

41 And there is Mrs. Dalton,” returned Cecil, 
44 more beautiful and charming than I am a thousand 
times.” Medhurst laughed slightly. 44 1 always 
knew you were in love with her” — 

44 You were jealous of her; it turned my brain 
to believe it, but I knew it all the time. I do 
almost dare to think }*ou love me. But ” — 

44 Oh, but — too many buts” — 

44 Your mother will hate me. You will have to 
stem the full tide of the current against me, — now, 
with Heriot, wind and tide are favorable.” 

44 Are you afraid ? ” 

He flung his arm about her. “Afraid? I am 
afraid of nothing but doing you some injury.” 

He was ready to forget everything again. She 
was so near to him, so simple, so trusting, so 
absolutely true in heart and feeling, he was ready to 
dismiss his self-accusations and draw her to his 
heart. But some glimmer of an instinct, blind, but 
unerring, made him sa} r : — 

44 That was a strange dream of yours.” 

44 It was a hideous dream.” 

44 Heriot has never spoken to you, I believe?” 

44 Spoken to me?” she repeated, as if uncertain 
of his meaning. 

44 He has not made love to you? ” 

44 He has been making love to me all the time,” 
cried Cecil, indignantly. 

44 Good God ! ” ejaculated Medhurst, withdrawing 
his arm from her waist. 44 What do 3 r ou mean? ” 

44 1 could not help it,” said Cecil. 44 I did not 


356 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


like it ; but mamma wished it. At first,” she went 
on, “ I thought you were to marry Mrs. Dalton, and 
that nothing mattered.” 

Medhurst had risen to his feet. 

“ Cecil,” said he, “ tell me clearly what } r ou 
are alluding to. Has Mr. Heriot made you, an offer 
of marriage?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, timidly. 

“ Did you accept or refuse him?” 

“ He made the offer to mamma, and she accepted 
it for me. Mamma told me it was all arranged ; 
that it was to be. I did not feel it so. I could 
not tell what to do ” — 

‘ ‘ Do you mean to say you are engaged to 
Heriot?” 

“ I have not told him so ; but ” — 

“ But what ? ” 

“ He thinks so.” 

“ Thinks you are engaged to him?” 

She nodded. 

“ Since when ? ” 

“ Since the day of the picnic.” 

“ Two days ago.” Medhurst gazed at her; she 
looked like a creature in pain, but he could not spare 
her. 

“ He is your accepted lover, then.” 

“ Oh, no — no — no ! ” 

“ Has he not considered himself your accepted 
lover?” 

She was trembling painfully ; her color came and 
went. 

u Tell me ! — tell me ! ” he cried, impatiently. 


“ HAD I WIST BEFORE I KIST: 


357 


“I am frightened,” she murmured. u You are 
angry with me.” 

“ Last night,” said he, shivering as if with cold, 
“ when I reached out my arms ” — 

It was impossible for him to utter what was in his 
mind. Remembering the look in her eyes as they 
mot his, the wa} r her hands had fluttered like timid 
little birds into his own, the kiss he had taken from 
her lips, he felt dizzy and sick. A thousand mis- 
erable thoughts swarmed through his mind. “ How 
could you,” he cried, stung by pain, — “ how could 
you treat me so? ” 

Cecil’s face was absolutely calm ; it was the calm- 
ness of a gathering despair at the gradual compre- 
hension of where she stood. She pressed her hands 
to her temples. 

“ It is Mr. Heriot'I have treated badly,” she said, 
with a look as if she were standing on some giddy 
height and gazing on the depths below. “It is you 
I have thought of all the time and never of him.” 

Medhurst listened without gaining any accurate 
impression from her words. 

“I knew from the first that he loved you, — that 
he was trying to win 3’ou. You do not know exactly 
what you have done, Cecil, and God forbid that you 
ever should. One thing is clear : if you are prom- 
ised to Heriot you are in no way mine. His rights 
are prior, superior. I yield mine.” 

u I thought,” said Cecil, “ that you would help 
me.” 

“ Help you? What help do you need of mine? ” 

“ You are not kind ; you are not generous to 
me.” 


358 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Medhurst looked at her with a bitter smile. 

“You don’t know, — you don’t know,” he said, 
very quietly. 

“ Let me tell you all, and then you will know,” 
cried Cecil. Her voice almost failed her. She was 
sobbing ; her lips were trembling, — she looked ready 
to fall at his feet. 

“ I don’t feel chivalrous — I don’t feel generous,” 
said he. “ But do not think I am angry with you, 
Cecil. I do not dare to think about you at all. I 
have been a fool, — that might be borne ; but I have 
also been disloyal and dishonest to a man who 
was kind to me. Cecil, I am not sure at this 
moment what to do or what to say. A few hours 
hence perhaps ” — He placed both hands upon her 
head. 

“O my God!” he muttered; “and once I 
thought you were mine ! ” He looked racked and 
tormented. She did not know a thousandth part of 
the gust of passion that had shaken him. 

“ A few hours later,” he repeated, in a mechanical 
voice, and left her. 


MEDHURST CUTS TEE KNOT. 


359 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


MEDHURST CUTS THE GORDIAN KNOT. 

O WARDS noon that day Rodney Heriot walked 



-L- along Mr. Haxtoun’s lawn to the spot just 
outside the study window where Medhurst was 
sitting at his work, and asked him to come out and 
walk. Medhurst hesitated a moment, then pushed 
back his chair, rose, and took his hat. 

44 Very well,” said he, 44 I will go. Let me speak 
to Mr. Haxtoun first.” 

Rodney had not moved from the place when 
Medhurst came round the house and joined him. 
44 Where are you going?” he asked. 

4 4 Have you any choice ? ” 

44 None.” 

44 Then let us go back on the hills as far as we 
can walk. The day is beautiful, — not too warm. 
In fact, the breeze is cool.” 

They struck straight across the grounds, and at 
the stile found Rodney’s dogs waiting for him im- 
patiently. 

44 You don’t object to the animals, I hope,” Rod- 
ney said. 

44 Quite the contrary,” Medhurst replied. 

44 They need to be watched, or they will get into 
mischief. They love to run something down ; they 


360 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


are cruel beasts. But then they know not what 
they -do. We are all cruel until we find out how 
other people’s pain hurts us.”'* 

Medhurst may or may not have listened, but he 
said nothing. They crossed the road, skirted a 
place opposite, climbed a high fence, and found them- 
selves on the slope of a long hill filled with luxu- 
riant rye ready for the harvest. The golden stalks 
were higher than their heads as they took the narrow 
path which cut diagonally across the great field. 
The brilliant sky above, the sunlight striking through 
the faintly nodding ears to the slender stalks below, 
gave curious effects of light. Rodney led the way, 
followed in single file by the dogs, each bent on 
good behavior, — Max solemn, and Duke with a sort 
of tricky travesty of majesty. Medhurst lagged 
behind, listless and languid. Some of his faculties 
were keenly awake, others were asleep. At the top of 
the hill the plantation ended abruptly, and the woods 
began. The deep shade promised rest and coolness, 
but there was no proposal to sit down. Rodney 
allowed his dogs to let off their suppressed spirits, 
and himself led them into extravagant antics. To 
his companion he hardly spoke ; and Medhurst, on 
his side, was in a sombre, inexorable mood he was 
not yet ready to break. When, presently, he should 
make an effort and conquer this dull, brooding 
passivity, he was uncertain what he should say and 
how he should act. Beyond the strip of woods 
began a higher hill, which was the loftiest eminence 
for miles around. They set out to climb it with a 
dogged persistence. The sun was on their backs ; 
they no longer felt a breath of the reviving breeze, 


MEDHURST CUTS TIIE KNOT. 


3G1 

and when they had gained the top they flung them- 
selves down under an oak tree. A wicTe view 
rewarded them at this point. The horizon was 
withdrawn on the east, north, and south, far beyond 
the river, whose course, though it could not be seen, 
might' be identified by the multiplying beams of 
light which the air took on above the line of water. 
Silent wooded hills, rising fold on fold, closed in 
the west with occasional glimpses of green meadow 
lands and the yellow stubble of harvested fields. 
At no great distance a farmer was cutting his rye, 
the reaper going round and round like a windmill, 
cutting and tossing the stalks in long, regular, 
swathes. 

“A pretty view, is it not?” said Rodney, speak- 
ing at last. 

“ Yes. Listen to the drowsy hum ! And do you 
feel the heat? It comes in waves, with a cooler 
breath between.” 

Rodney’s tongue was unloosed, and he began to 
talk. He saw the shadow of a bird flying between 
him and the sun, and it set him telling stories of all 
the birds he knew. He could recognize each one by 
its flight and its habit of dropping to seize its prey. 
He was apparently in all nature’s secrets. He could 
tell about the ants which crawled over them, and the 
bees which buzzed past them. He pointed out a 
couple of rabbits at a distance down the slope before 
even the dogs discovered their proximity and pricked 
up their ears; The little gray creatures, with all 
then.' sharp instincts, went on nibbling at the clover, 
never thinking to keep a lookout against an enemy 
above them. Rodney had always wondered, so he 


362 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


now said, that he had not been created an animal with 
four legs, instead of two. He hated the complexi- 
ties of human existence. “ Animals are egotists,” 
he affirmed ; “ but then each knows by instinct just 
what he requires to make him happy, and he seizes 
it with an utter indifference to what does not belong 
to him. Man, on the contrary, a being cursed with 
imagination, is constantly inventing new ideas and 
new desires. He does not analyze his own needs: 
he knows neither what his will is, nor what his want 
is. All that it is possible for the whole universe of 
mankind to have, he, as an individual, must pos- 
sess. No matter if the possession is costly, cumber- 
some ; in fact, a trouble and a pain, — so long as his 
mind can conceive it, his miserable, jealous, ambi- 
tious spirit is not at rest until he has it, or has 
broken his heart and ruined his life in a struggle to 
attain it.” 

“There is something in what you say,” said 
Medhurst, who had paid little attention to what 
seemed at first mere rhodomontade, but now began 
to insert its point into his consciousness like a care- 
fully driven wedge. “ But then, is not civilization 
the product of this imitation, envy, ambition ? Does 
not the real zest of life come from its competitions, 
since every man tries to pass his fellow-man by a 
stride, at least? ” 

“ Don’t generalize — don’t go off into the abstract. 
Apply your ideas to real life, to th$ concrete.” 

“ I have nothing concrete,” retorted Medhurst. 
“ Let a poor devil like me enjoy a limitless ab- 
stract.” 

“What I was going to add was this,” pursued 


MED HUB ST CUTS THE KNOT. 


363 


Rodney. 44 A man wants what can do him no good. 
Take, for instance, a man doomed to early death ; 
why does he not give up what he has no right to 
enjoy ? But, no ; instead of yielding to his fate, as 
a beast yields, he measures his requirements by his 
incapacities. Powerless to accept love and happi- 
ness, he still struggles for love and happiness.” 

“ You don’t mean that,” said Medhurst, interrupt- 
ing eagerly. 44 Don’t take a sick man ; take, instead, 
one like me, — an unsuccessful one, — one who knows 
himself, and whom others know, to be a complete 
failure. Make him your illustration. He is the one 
who most needs to limit himself and feel the inex- 
orable 4 must’ ; yet he is, on the contrary, the most 
intolerant of realties, and the most obstinate 
dreamer. He wants — God help him ! — love and 
happiness.” 

The two exchanged glances. 

44 Don’t take my words to yourself,” muttered 
Rodney, changing color. 

44 But how could I help it?” 

44 1 don’t know what I meant. How warm it is ! 
The dogs are thirsty. Sit still a moment, and I’ll 
go and look for a spring.” 

He called the animals into the adjoining copse, and 
Medhurst could hear him talking to them and to 
himself until they had penetrated so far into the 
woods they were out of reach of his ears. When 
they reemerged the dogs were in the freshest spirits, 
and Rodney was laughing over their exploits. The 
truth was, he. felt singularly nervous, and it was 
easier to beat about the bush and make more talk 
than to go straight at the subject. He now began 


364 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


to talk about himself, giving a recital of his doings 
for the past ten years, interrupted by frequent di- 
gressions, for the sake of eliciting some opinion 
from Medhurst, who, nevertheless, offered neither 
comment nor admonition. Rodney seemed to have 
been questioning his conscience and putting himself 
on trial. He was not inclined to pass the sponge 
over his faults, but he was tired of committing 
them, he declared, and wanted to do no more foolish 
things. He longed now to dismiss crude illusions, 
and see life ^as it really was ; he wanted, in fact, a 
reasonable existence for the rest of his days, marked 
by duties, and definitely guided by routine. 

At this point Rodney paused and glanced at Med- 
hurst, who answered his look calmly, and said : — 

“You wish to marry.” 

“ I see you understand me.” 

u I understand you admirably. You are going 
to marry. You have chosen Miss Haxtoun for 
your wife, and have every wish to accept the 
altered conditions of the future.” 

Rodney laughed. 

“ You believe me to be engaged to her?” 

“ I assuredly do.” 

“ Do you wonder that for days I have been half 
out of my senses with joy? I find, to my surprise, 
that I am brimming over with sentiment. If I see 
anything I wish to myself she were seeing it with 
me ; if I hear anything I fix it in my mind to 
repeat to her. Upon my word I should be per- 
fectly happy, so it seems to me now, if I could 
settle down here for the rest of my life with her. 
I have never been domestic ; but now all I long for 

7 O 


MED HUE ST CUTS THE KNOT . 


is to have a home and a wife. But that is hardly 
fair to Cecil. I shall take her abroad for a time, 
doubtless. In fact, there is no limit to the things 
I intend to do for her.” 

“Naturally,” Medhurst exerted himself to say. 
He was, he believed, well schooled by this time. 
He wanted to say more. The subject of what a 
man situated like Heriot could do for the girl he 
loved was a large one, and it loomed before him. 
But when he tried to add some suggestion of this, 
something bitter and terrible flashed across his 
consciousness and smote him : what he uttered was 
not unlike a sob ; at least it was a sound which 
shuddered out of an unbearable pain. 

Rodney started up as if confronted by a spectre. 

“Is it so then?” he asked, in a bitter, peremp- 
tory tone. 

“It is so,” answered Medhurst. “But do not 
be alarmed. I am not altogether the weak fool I 
seem to be.” 

“ But you care for her? Confess it ! ” 

“Is it worth while to press that point? ” 

“ Yes. I want the truth, and I want it from 
you.” 

“ I do care for her.” 

“ Since when? ” 

“I cannot tell you. I do not know it myself.” 

“ But, before you confessed to yourself that you 
were attracted by her, did you not know that I 
was her suitor?” 

“I did.” 

“ I meant to make it clear to you. I trusted 
you.” 


366 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS v . 


44 Heriot, this is bitter, bitter ! ” 

44 I trusted you, I say. I was now and then in- 
clined to be jealous of you,— you are younger 
than I.” 

44 I despise myself.” 

4 4 But why — why ” — 

44 Why did I permit myself to care for her?” 
said Medhurst, every moment more and more 
agitated. 44 How could it matter what I cared 
for her? What happened was this. There was a 
day when I fastened on the idea that you were 
over your fancy for her ; that you were in love 
with a different woman.” 

44 You make that your apology? ” 

44 Call it my apology, — my apology for dis- 
honorable conduct, if you will. Heriot, whether 
you believe it or not, I am conscious that I have 
played a miserable part here.” 

44 How miserable, how unjustifiable, you don’t 
know,” cried Rodney, his voice piercing and his 
eyes aflame. 44 You are young, — you have the 
world before you. If she loves you what else 
remains to me?—- it was my one chance.” 

44 Your one chance? ” 

44 It was like the poor man’s little ewe-lamb.” 

This outbreak seemed not unlike a pointless jest ; 
but the extraordinary bitterness of Rodney’s tone 
showed that he was in earnest. 

44 I the rich man ! ” exclaimed Medhurst, with an 
air of bewilderment and incredulity. 44 1 taking 
away the poor man’s one little ewe-lamb ! ” 

44 Yes,” declared Rodney. 44 1 am well past 


MEDHURST CUTS THE KNOT. 367 

thirty-six, — no longer young, hopeful, or strong, 
and I am tired of -these persistent failures.” 

“These persistent failures,” repeated Medhurst, 
once more. 

“I was so happy,” Rodney went oh. “I felt 
like the good woman in the gospel, who was so 
enchanted to find her lost penny. I have always 
wanted to love somebody ; but I have loved few 
people, and nobody has ever loved me. A man 
needs to be loved a little, in order to feel sure of 
himself — to believe in himself.” 

1 ‘ And have I robbed you ? ” asked Medhurst, 
meditatively. 

“ When I heard that you had come between me 
and Cecil ” — 

‘ 4 Who told you ? ” 

“No matter, — I heard it. I said to myself that 
I would kill you. But, at the very moment I was 
registering that vow, I came across Snow, who was 
boiling over with rage against you, and he put me 
out of conceit with any idea of vengeance.” 

Medhurst had risen, and was pacing to and fro, 
while Rodney still lay stretched at his full length 
on the turf, propping up his chin with his hands. 

“ Have you seen her to-day?” he now asked. 

“Yes,” said Medhurst, coldly. 

The other was on his feet in a moment, and 
sprang at Medhurst like a panther, clutching at 
him and shaking him powerfully. But Med- 
hurst, though taken by surprise, was not thrown 
down. Once on his guard he was more than 
Rodney’s match, and, watching for his oppor- 
tunity, presently, by a dexterous movement, caught 


368 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


his opponent’s wrists, and held them like a vice, 
then flung him back, and stood looking into his 
face. 

“This is a foolish business,” said he. “You 
are 'behaving childishly, Heriot. Besides, you have 
no call for anger. Sit down and listen to me.” 

Rodney was blushing with shame and vexation. 
He was conscious of his own inconsistency. His 
impression concerning Medhurst shifted every 
moment. There was no consecutiveness in his 
ideas : by turns he had a vision of self-renuncia- 
tion, and was inspired by a resolution to give up 
nothing. Finally, in a moment of blind, jealous 
rage, he had committed himself to violence, and 
now felt the smart of remorse for it. 

“ Let us talk coolly as man to man a moment,” 
said Medhurst. “ You asked if I had seen Miss 
Haxtoun to-day. I will tell you what happened 
at our interview. She told me then, and for the 
first time, that she was engaged to you.” 

Rodney sat on the ground, bending over and 
pulling nervously at tufts of grass. He now lifted 
his dilated, feverishly brilliant eyes, fixed them on 
Medhurst, and seemed waiting to hear more. 

“She is very young — very inexperienced,” 
Medhurst went on, speaking with some difficulty. 
“I fancy she — she pitied me, and for a time — 
There are feelings which gather force and con- 
centration from being forbidden. I advise you 
to give her a little time. Show her the best half 
of yourself. I do not see why all her heart should 
not jgo out to a man like you.” 

Rodney jumped up ; he stretched out his hands. 


MED HURST CUTS THE KNOT. 369 


u Oh, you are generous ! ” he exclaimed. 

“ No, I am not generous,” said Medhurst ; “ but 
I think of her, and only of her. What compensation 
is there for a woman who_makes a mistake in mar- 
riage?” 

‘ ‘ Do you mean to say' you resign her ? ” 

“ I am going away.” 

“ Actually?” 

“ Do not hurry her,” said Medhurst, who was 
impatient with him for seeming to doubt that there 
was any other sequence except instant going away 
after his energetic resolution to play a man’s part 
in the emergency. “ She will soon forget me.” 

“And shall you forget her?” asked Rodney, ab- 
ruptly. 

“ I don’t know.” 

“You seem to me to be violently breaking your 
life in two.” 

“All motive has gone from me except to get 
away and at once,” said Medhurst. 

Rodney did not speak, but continued to gaze at 
him. 

“Good-by,” said Medhurst. He lost no time. 
He did not even touch the other’s extended hand, 
and, without once looking back, strode down the hill, 
leaped the fence, and vanished into the wood. 

Left to himself, Rodney Heriot settled back into 
a comfortable position on the grass. 

“ Now that is a good thing,” he observed, aloud. 
“ Medhurst is a sensible fellow.” 

But, although he thus summed up the burden of 
his thoughts, they were far from all taking the same 
logical direction. An internal debate went on, in 


v** 


370 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


which he took first one side and then the other. 
His feelings rushed with an impetuous current 
towards Cecil ; but all the time his wavering conscious- 
ness was strongly impressed by Medhurst. He recoiled 
from the idea that the young girl’s belief and love 
were to be disappointed. Many precious things are 
broken with the breaking of illusions. His indigna- 
tion against Medhurst revived, and he felt irritated 
with him, not only for raising his eyes to Cecil, but 
for winning upon his own sympathies. But, after 
all, there are certain laws a man is bound to obey, 
and Medhurst ought not to have thought of his pa- 
tron’s daughter at all. Still, now he had apparently 
played his part and vanished into shadow. He had 
solved the problem in a way that seemed to him very 
simple, and had gone away. Rodney was acting after 
his usual precedents, and obeying his adopted maxims 
in gaining all the advantages he could from the situ- 
ation. “ Take the goods the gods provide,” was 
familiar to his heart and lips, and if other thoughts, 
aspirations, and ideas had their echo in his mind 
and soul he had rarely used them as a rule of life. 
Both the words Medhurst had uttered, and those 
which had burned in his eyes and remained unspoken, 
had the power of shaking Rodney. He felt an almost 
inexplicable tenderness and fellow-feeling for the 
young man. He began to make schemes for helping 
him. He did not want him to struggle on, and finally 
fall in utter darkness. The thought of insuring him 
some sort of material success became more and more 
pleasant to him. With a good place, where he 
might reap the advantages of the world’s wealth and 
civilization, his failures would be cancelled and his 


MEDHURST CUTS THE KNOT. 371 

scarred sensibilities healed. This longing to do 
something for Medhurst was a reaction against stabs 
of bitter self-reproach. With that young man com- 
fortably provided for, Rodney felt that his own 
happiness would be insured. He wanted to dismiss 
him from his mind, and yield himself up to the ex- 
quisite, indefinite sensations of happiness and hope. 


372 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A LOST OPPORTUNITY. 

T OWARDS sunset Rodney walked across the 
Haxtouns’ lawn, and joined the group on the 
piazza, where the family was assembled. Mr. 
Haxtoun had experienced an earthquake that day, 
and his universe was still shattered. 

“Do you know what has happened?” he asked 
Rodney, in a hollow voice, as he came up the steps. 
“ My secretary has left me.” 

“ He told me he was going,” the visitor replied, 
going up to Cecil, and taking her lifeless hand in 
his. “ I suppose you will miss him. Rut I hope 
the loss is not irreparable.” 

Cecil had not yet raised her eyes. 

“ Bitterly irreparable,” said Mr. Haxtoun. “ At 
my age, in my state of health, it is a death-blow. 
He promises faithfully to send some competent 
person within a week to assist me, but I feel that 
he is too sanguine. I see myself dying, like Buckle, 
with my immortal work unachieved, saying, ‘ My 
book, my book, — I cannot finish my book ! ’ ” 

“ Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, “ do not sug- 
gest anything so painful. Mr. Medhurst may have 
been an admirable secretary ; but, after all, no one 
person enjoys a monopoly of all talents and all 


A LOST OPPORTUNITY. 


373 


virtues. And then you know it was very much to 
Mr. Medhurst’s advantage to go away.”" 

“To his advantage?” said Rodney, eagerly. 
‘ 1 How was that ? ” 

“The editor of the ‘Forum’ is going to Europe 
and the East for a year, and Mr. Medhurst is to 
take his place.” 

“ Ah, indeed ! ” Rodney observed, with some sug- 
gestion of meaning behind his words ; “ he is luckier 
than I supposed. He always roused my sympathy 
for his deprivation of the prizes of life, yet fate 
seemed to be always knocking at his door with just 
what he wanted.” 

Mr. Haxtoun was ready to go on with his lament, 
but his wife was of opinion that quite enough had 
been said concerning the young man. She began to 
talk about Mrs. Dalton, who had called that day to 
say good-by, and had announced her departure for 
Newport on the morrow. 

“ Yes,” said Rodney, “ she is tired of us. She 
abhors the trivial waste which goes on in quiet life, 
and likes to reserve herself for grand occasions. 
The play gave her something to do ; but now that it 
is over she would find us very flat and dreary.” 

“ I thought,” said Mrs. Haxtoun, with a little nod, 

“ that Mr. Medhurst’s departure might have pre- 
cipitated hers.” 

Rodney could not forbear glancing at Cecil. He 
hardly knew whether it promised well or ill for him 
that whatever had happened between Medhurst and 
the young girl was unknown to the mother. 

“ I do not think,” he remarked languidly, “ that 
much of the old passion had survived their six years’ 


374 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


separation. He was very young when he knew her 
formerly, — he probably understands her better now 
than he did then.” 

“ It would seem,” put in Alec, with some pique, 
“ that you consider a mature judgment” — 

“ Don’t impute any considerations to me, I beg,” 
said Rodney. “ Any man of any age may admire a 
pretty woman.” 

“ I shall see Mrs. Dalton in Newport next week,” 
pursued Alec. “ I am to be at my uncle’s for a 
month.” 

“ Happy man ! ” said Rodney. He rose and ap- 
proached Cecil. 

“Come and walk down to the river-bank with 
me,” he said. 

She obeyed him on the instant. She seemed to 
have expected — to have been waiting for the sum- 
mons. Mrs. Haxtoun hung about her daughter with 
a pretty solicitude as she crossed the piazza, and 
gave Rodney a shawl in which to wrap his charge if 
the river breeze blew. 

“Your mother knows how I love to take care of 
you,” he said to Cecil, as they descended the first 
terrace. “ You seem to me like a tender little 
child, whose unused feet must touch no rough place 
in the world.” 

She looked up at him with a trembling smile. He 
saw that she had grown pale since she came out, 
that even her lips had lost their color, and he spoke 
no more until they had descended the last of the 
long line of terraces. 

“ I was glad yoir asked me to come out.” she said 


A LOST OPPORTUNITY. 


375 


then, with a curious sort of composure. “ I wanted 
to see you alone. I have something to tell you.” 

He looked at her with a troubled glance. 

“Is it anything you want me to forgive?” he 
asked. 

“ It is something I must confess.” 

“ Let it be as if the confession were made,” said 
he, rallying his spirits, and speaking with his light, 
airy charm of manner. “ I forgive it if it be a sin 
against me, — I forgive it freely ; for I might myself 
confess a thousand sins, did it not seem better to let 
them all go into the past, and to begin again. I will 
have no sins against you in the future, Cecil ; not 
one. And, as for you, I will give you no chance to 
have sins against me.” 

Something in his words stung her. Her eyes 
drooped a little. She flung out her hands impetu- 
ously. 

“ Oh,” she said, with a half-sob, “ I wish you 
could look into my heart for one moment ! ” 

“I do look into your heart. I know it better 
than you think. You do not quite love me yet, — 
but then, you do not hate me.” 

He held her hands in his and looked down into 
her face. Encountering his gaze in this way, she 
experienced the effect of some bond between them. 
It seemed impossible to question his authority over 
her. 

“Do you not want me to be true — to be hon- 
est?” she asked him, almost the more determined to 
show no sign of submission because she felt that 
she must submit. 

“ You are true ; you are honest.” 


376 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ Do not say that, when I want you to despise 
rue.” 

“ Ah, little one ! ” he looked at her steadily, — 

“ I only want you to tell me one thing, — that you 
are mine.” 

She looked at him with a sort of despair. 

“ Will you have me with falsehoods, with a 
secret, with a ceaseless pain that breaks my heart ? 
All day long I have not known where to turn nor 
whom to confide in, until at last I said to myself, 

‘ I will tell Mr. Heriot everything. He will know 
what is best for me to do/” 

Her trouble rushed over her with overwhelming 
force. An impulse of terror had come upon her ; she 
had seen her fault in a new, awful, sharply defined 
aspect. She was afraid to trust herself ; she 
dreaded her blind choice. She longed to tell every- 
thing that w^as in her heart, and it had seemed to 
her that Rodney Heriot might be ready to listen with 
sympathy, if not with indulgence. But, met by his 
persistent negation, her visionary impulse seemed 
lost. Her familiar little world of father, mother, 
brother, and cousin had changed its aspect for her. 
There seemed no use in any appeal to them. Her 
mother had crushed her with her sweetness, her dis- 
dain, her scepticism of the worth of her feelings 
and impulses, and to the others she had no heart to 
turn. She had been compelled to define for herself 
the meaning of the vague, impalpable thoughts 
that floated in her mind, and make actual shapes 
for the hurrying and crowded images that loomed** 
before her. But the experience was disciplining 
her to truth, to duty, to a feeling which put the 


A LOST OPPORTUNITY. 


377 


happiness of the rest of the world before her own. 
The strange yearning of heart she had been moved 
by towards Medhurst ; the sudden revelation that he 
loved her, that the glimpse of her feelings had 
opened heaven to him, — all these had given her a 
rapture which not even her half belief in the fatality 
that kept them apart could smother. But the 
clearer insight which had come with her realization 
of what love might mean had shown her fault 
towards Rodney Heriot. 

“Let me tell you everything,” she said, plead- - 
ingly. “ I have done wrong, and it has been you to 
whom I have done wrong.” 

Rodney felt all his joy flatly depart. 

“ Come and sit down,” said he. “ If I am to hear 
it, let me hear it at once. I wish you would be con- 
tent not to tell me.” 

He led her to one of the garden-seats along the 
terrace path. Cecil sat down, dizzy with the whirl 
of her thoughts, turning to him in her need, longing 
for some fact to grasp. 

He sat down close beside her. 

“Cecil,” he began at once, “ here you are, almost 
within the circle of my arms, — close by my heart. 
You cannot tell me anything to pain me, — I am sure 
you cannot. For days now I have carried the belief 
that you are to be my wife. Promise me that.” 

,He looked at her, but she said nothing, only bent 
her head lower on her breast. 

. “ Perhaps I could have borne it the other day to 

be refused,” said he ; “ but I cannot bear it now. 
My heart has filled with love towards you since I 
spoke, as the brooks fill with floods in spring.” 


378 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Cecil looked up at him as if dazzled. 

“ I see,” she cried, in a tone of despair ; “I see it 
all. I was weak, — I was wicked, — and now I shall 
have to suffer all my life. I told mamma, — she 
knew, — but how was I to tell you that day ? I 
hardly dared say it to myself at that time.” 

Rodney felt all his ideas stiffen into wintry ri- 
gidity. 

“ Tell me frankly now,” said he. “ Go on, — 
tell everything.” 

“ Mamma wanted me to marry you,” she said, 
almost as if talking in her sleep. “ And how could 
I say then that I wanted to marry somebody else ? ” 

“ Medhurst?” 

She nodded, the tears rushing to her eyes. 

“ He had not asked you then?” 

“ No, not then.” 

u But he has since?” 

She said nothing, and he, too, was silent. Presently 
she took heart and went on : — 

“ I knew that I was wrong. I needed a friend, 
but I had no friend to go to. And when mamma 
planned it all, I could not presumptuously say, 4 I 
will not have it so.’ What I said within my own 
heart was, 1 Something will happen, — something 
must happen.’ Even when you were speaking to 
me that day, as we walked up the glen, I kept push- 
ing away the real facts, and making believe they 
were meaningless things, which ended with your 
words, and would be forgotten like other little 
phrases. And all that day and the next my heart 
was so heavy, or else it was so strangely light. I 
felt either in a nightmare or seemed to float in the 


A LOST OPPOBTUNITY. 


379 


clouds. All the voices I heard sounded far off, — 
they did not address me — until — until Mr. Med- 
hurst spoke. And when he told me last night he 
was going away — I — You see it settled every- 
thing for me.” 

“Tell me just what happened. Let me know so 
much.” 

Cecil did not analyze the meaning of the scorn 
and the passion in his voice. She obeyed him, 
speaking hurriedly, and in a voice barely above a 
whisper : — 

“ I can only remember that he said he was going 
away. And then I felt as if everything was vanish- 
ing. It was as if I were drowning, — I reached out 
for help. I did not think at all except that I could 
not bear it. I did not remember you in that 
moment ; it never occurred to me that I was un- 
true — I simply ” — 

“ Did he — did he kiss you?” Rodney asked, in 
a voice no one would have recognized as his own. 
But he did not wait for her answer, but said reck- 
lessly : — 

“ Tell me what happened when you met this 
morning.” 

She had forgotten all except her own trouble now, 
and, counting on help from some one, believed it would 
come from Rodney. She looked up at him with the 
tears running down her face. 

“ He had already begun to doubt that he had a 
right to speak to me,” she said. “ He declared he 
was too poor — not well enough placed in the world 
— to ask me to marry him.” 

“ And what reply did you make to that? ” 


380 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


4 4 That I was not so very poor, that I had some 
money, all my own, that grandmamma left me.” 

44 Ah, and that comforted him? - ” 

4 4 It made him angry, rather. He would have 
sent me away, but when he saw it broke my heart, 
he said ” — her voice sank — 44 he could give up the 
woman he loved, but not the woman who loved 
him.” 

44 Ah ! ” burst from Rodney. 

44 But I had not then confessed,” she now ex- 
claimed, with all the bitterness of despair, 44 that I 
was in any way bound to you : when he heard that, 
it was as if a gulf opened between us. He went 
away at once.” 

It was a. hard moment for Rodney. As he had 
told her, here she was, almost within the circle of his 
arms ; she almost touched his heart, which beat with 
quick, furious throbs. And wh}' not clasp her there, 
and hold her, teach her a new creed, give her a new 
faith ? The opportunity was his ; all he needed was the 
courage to take it. And his love was, in a measure, 
of the clinging, unreasoning, passionate sort, which 
would make a half-resistance from her piquant and 
sweet. But he wanted her love ; a half-happiness, 
which brought a poignant pain- with it, might be the 
chief of calamities. 

44 What is it,” he cried, 44 that hinders you from 
loving me ? ” He laughed slightly. 4 4 Is it the 
years between us ? Tell me how Medhurst tricked 
your heart away.” 

44 1 don’t know,” she said, impetuously. 44 From 
the first he was like nobody else to me. And then — 
I hate things that are made too easy. I long for 


A LOST OPPORTUNITY. 


381 


something actual, something difficult. I would 
choose, above all others I would choose, a life in 
which I renounced something, — denied myself some- 
thing. I like better^ what is hard and painful than 
what a rich, prosperous life would give me.” She 
broke off, growing scarlet. Rodney had started to 
his feet as if stung. “ Forgive me, forgive me, 
Mr. Ileriot,” she said, humbly. 

“ I haven’t much vanity,” he exclaimed, “ and it 
is not hurt. I am almost glad you did not count in 
my mother’s income, and old Est6’s pictures and 
wood-carvings.” He sat down again on the edge of 
the bench, irresolute. “I have said it before,” he 
remarked, after a time, in a tone of absolute convic- 
tion, — “no woman ever loved me. I don’t win love.” 

He wondered what he had better say or do, but he 
seemed to have neither logic, reason, nor will. All 
his energy was paralyzed. He remembered that 
Medhurst had bade him have patience, and 
not hurry the young girl. But at this moment he 
was eager only to have done with the whole experi- 
ence, to forget it, and have it well blurred over in 
the past. Had there been more solemnity about his 
mood he might have declared that his heart was 
broken, for he felt as if something was shattered 
within him. But he could not rally to the point of 
calling his emotions by a name. His mind fastened 
on certain past episodes of his life, in which, at the 
crowning moment, what seemed within his grasp 
had melted away. There was always some reason 
why he could not succeed, let it be in act or in- 
tention, love or hate. The moment he measured 
his dreams against realities they grew unlifelike, 


382 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


monstrous. But the conviction of his lack of fervid 
belief, of his weakness, of his incompetence, hurt him 
cruelly. This dream had been the sweetest of his life ; 
with all his heart he longed to have it come to pass. 

“ No, I don’t win love,” he said again. “ I have 
not won yours ; more’s the pity, for I want you for 
my wife. I want nothing else, — nothing in the 
world. The desire did not come all at once, but 
now that it is here it clutches me like a giant.” 

He turned towards her, then recoiled with a sharp, 
swift quiver of the heart. “ She does not half- 
know how I love her,” he said within himself, “ and 
she does not care to know.” His eyes rested on the 
fair, young face. He remembered that Medhurst 
had kissed her . . . The cup must be drunk to 

the dregs, and it was full, full, brimming over. u If 
I could only be done with it,” he thought; “if I 
could throw myself into a gulf, and so escape it.” 

“ You know I like Medhurst, — I liked him all the 
time,” he said aloud ; “ and I grudge him no good- 
fortune except this.” 

Cecil had commanded herself hitherto. 

“ But this is not good-fortune,” said she, with a 
little sob. “ I cannot help saying to myself, that all is 
over between him and me before it has really begun.” 

Rodney caught her hand. 

“ I can’t have you unhappy,” he said. “ Others 
must bear it, — no matter how. Despair is not for 
you.” 

He was afraid to stay longer with her, lest he 
should promise too much. 

“ How dark it grows ! ” he said, after a little pause. 
“ I must take you in.” 


CECIL COMES UP TO TOWN. 383 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

CECIL COMES UP TO TOWN. 



NE day early in October, Medhurst, who had 


Vv for six weeks been immured in editorial life 
again, received a note from Mrs. Dalton, asking 
him to call upon her, in his first moment of leisure, 
at the “ Parthenia,” where she had taken a suite of 
rooms for the winter. Medhurst, who since he left 
Rosendale had heard not a word of the group of 
people with whom he had been more or less inti- 
mately thrown for three months, at once sent a 
reply, fixing the next morning for his visit, and 
on the ensuing day took his way up-town with a 
promptness which may or may not have been a 
tribute to Mrs. Dalton. She, at least, was flattered 
by his promptness. 

“You were the first person I thought of in coming 
back to New York,” she said, running towards him 
and extending her hands to him ; u although I have 
a thousand things to do, a thousand preparations to 
make. Even now I ought to be with my tailor, but 
I was so enchanted at the idea of seeing you I put 
him off. Do you know that I am coming out at 
Garrick’s, the twen ty- third of October? ” 

“ I had heard not a whisper of it.” 

“ It was hurriedly decided on a week ago. Mr. 


384 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


Stein came all the way to Newport to make the en- 
gagement. Miss Rutherford, the leading lady, fell 
ill, and cannot be back for weeks, perhaps months.” 

She entered at once into the subject of her debut; 
told the amount of her salary, her requirements, her 
perquisites, her- impressions of her fellow-actors, 
and her own success in the rehearsals. She evi- 
dently took a practical, and not an exaggerated, view 
of her prospects. Her ambition was temperate ; her 
demands not peremptory. 

“It is good for me to be under orders,” she 
finally observed. “ Nothing humanizes one so 
much as having fixed duties and a fixed salary. 
One finds one’s self a part of the working force of the 
world, and one understands the movements and 
meanings of the rest of the machinery better.” 

“ Very likely,” said Medhurst, “ if one has time 
for those large views. I have generally been 
obliged to feel myself a mere spoke in the wheel, and 
my observation is limited to its revolutions.” 

!For the first time Mrs. Dalton looked at her vis- 
itor. Up to the present moment she had been so 
utterly engrossed in her own story she had merely 
thought of him as an audience. 

“What are you doing nowadays?” she asked. 
“ I was so surprised to hear that you left Rosendale 
the day before I went to Newport. Nobody told 
me at the time that you were gone for good, but, 
later, Mrs. Est6 mentioned the fact in her letters.” 

“ I was sent for. Mr. Hill telegraphed to ask if 
I could take his position for a few months, and I 
came to New York at once. I accepted the place. 


CECIL COMES UP TO TOWN. 385 

My first duty was to look up a secretary for Mr. 
Haxtoun, whom I had left in the lurch.” 

44 Did you succeed?” 

44 Oh, yes ; the old gentleman has forgotten even 
to regret me.” 

4 4 And how are you doing ? ” 

44 Very well, I believe.” 

4 4 Are you making money ? ” 

44 No vast amount.” 

44 You look older, more decided, more in earnest,” 
declared Fanny, throwing a good deal of expression 
into her fine eyes. 

Medhurst waived these personal considerations. 
He told Mrs. Dalton that he was in a position to 
advance her in he] and he would help 



She was glad to 


her to the extent 


return to the subject of her own profession. She 
was interested in all its cliques, mysteries, intrigues. 
She caught eagerly at all the guild-secrets, and were 
anxious to propitiate the ruling powers. There was 
a display of experience, and a freedom from illu- 
sion in her estimate of things, which seemed to 
promise success. She already believed that fascina- 
tion of the public rested on clever trickery, and that 
the critics could cajole them into almost any views. 
This may have been interesting to Medhurst, but he 
had only an hour to spend with her, and he had not 
yet heard a word of what he had come to learn. It 
was not until he rose to take leave that he had a 
chance to ask : — 

44 What have you heard from Rodney Heriot?” 

Fanny’s mobile face changed slightly. 

44 1 believe he is going abroad.” 


386 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


“ They, I suppose you mean. His wedding comes 
off this autumn, no doubt.” 

“Wedding! I have heard of no wedding. If 
you allude to the idea some people entertained that 
he wanted to marry Miss Ilaxtoun, I assure you 
there was nothing in it. Don’t you remember my 
telling you that he would never marry her ? Mrs. 
Est6 wrote me that he tried to make up his mind 
to it, but found out that he was too old. It 
was a mere midsummer madness. He had 
lived for himself too long, — he could not pick up 
handkerchiefs and offer bouquets of roses like 
younger men. The thing bored him. He declares 
that he is devoted to his mamma, and only to her. He 
wants her to go to Paris with him. Poor old lady ! 
How tired she is of the world, and yet how much she 
has got in it ! By the way, Frank ” — Mrs. Dal- 
ton did not go on. She was about to ask some 
rankling question concerning his infatuation of two 
months ago ; but, observing the gleam in his eye, she 
laughed softly, looking at him, remained silent a 
moment, then made him promise to return soon, and 
in parting gave him the smile which was soon to 
charm all the town. 

On the journey back to his office Medhurst gave 
himself up to thoughts he had lately checked and 
controlled. He had interpreted the heavy silence 
between himself and Rosendale as a confirmation 
of his belief that everything there was moving on 
in its appointed way ; that his absence had left 
no blank. Coerced to bear his pain, it had finally 
given him strength. He had found more than enough 
to do. This was a friendly chance to show him his 


CECIL COMES UP TO TOWN. 


387 


own powers, and he had determined to profit by it. 
He had learned more than one lesson in life of late. 
He no longer estimated himself beyond his true 
worth. His imagination had hitherto misled him 
a little, and, after sounding his imperfections with it 
until they were virtues, it now made his fault blacker 
than it was. He had thought of Heriot with a sting- 
ing sense of his own unfaithfulness, while he believed 
him to be reinstated with Cecil, and when now he 
entered his room and found Heriot sitting in his 
chair, he was seized with a feeling of surprise, 
doubt, and contrition almost overwhelming. 

“I — I was just thinking of you ! ” he exclaimed, 
stopping short*, and staring at his visitor. 

Rodney had sprung to his* feet. 

“Nevertheless, you look at me as if I were the 
last man in the world you wanted to see,” he said. 
“ Now, I fancied that, by this time, you would be 
hankering after my society.” 

“ Don’t mind my looks. I am glad to see you. I 
have just this moment come from Mrs. Dalton, who 
spoke of you.” 

Rodney gave Medhurst a keen glance. 

“ Are you in her meshes again? ” 

“ Hardly, — so far, at any rate. She invited me 
to call, and I gratefully complied. I knew nothing 
of her, — in fact, I knew nothing of any one. We 
talked chiefly of her prospects ; she told me she is 
going on the stage.” 

“ Yes, my mother heard from her that she had 
secured a very good engagement. I fancy she will 
succeed very well. She likes sensation, and she 
likes applause ; and she is likely to gain both. I 


388 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


don’t blame her for wanting to put something into 
her life. She has not much heart, so she cannot 
solace herself by falling in love ; and she is fright- 
fully discreet, so that she will not give herself away 
by being fallen in love with. Life becomes tame to 
a clever woman like that. Nothing would induce 
me to be a woman. We all expend our force on 
trivialities, but they expend theirs on such dull 
trivialities. Did you never see a group of half-a- 
dozen women, arch, brilliant, mutinous, discussing 
some subject in secret conclave with such avidity 
that you long to know what it is, believing the topic 
to be something racy, wicked, delicious? Depend 
upon it, they are talking about nothing more than 
whether their petticoats are to be scant or full next 
season, flat at the hips or bouffant . They are 
dreadfully restricted.” 

Under the sedative of Rodney’s easy common- 
places Medhurst had regained his composure, and 
now drew a chair opposite his visitor and sat down. 

“ Are you staying in town?” he inquired. 

“Yes, we came up yesterday. We have decided 
to spend the winter in New York.” 

“ Tell me how it is that you are not going to be 
married?” Medhurst said, in a low voice, going 
straight to the matter which most concerned them 
both without preamble. 

They looked at each other, first pale, then simul- 
taneously beginning to redden. 

“ I don’t think you need information on that 
point, — you of all men,” said Rodney, rather dryly. 
He seemed disinclined to say more, but presently 
added, “ Make your mind easy, — I am not to marry 


CECIL COMES UP TO TOWN. 


389 


Miss Haxtoun. You see I don’t fatigue myself 
carrying about the same ideas month after month 
and year after year. To-day my happiness seems 
at stake, but to-morrow I find out that I still live, 
although happiness no longer exists for me. Sen- 
sations, repugnances, sympathies, hopes and fears, 
come and go, mix and merge into each other. Last 
March I resented the idea that anybody wished me 
to marry. But then the notion of marriage grew 
less strange, until 4 seen too oft, familiar with its 
face, I first endured, then pitied, then embraced.’ 
That is, I almost embraced it, — I would if I could, 
but at the critical moment ” — Rodney broke off 
abruptly and stared at the ceiling. “ How do you 
get on?” he asked, without change of voice. 

“Iam doing very well. At least I am a busy 
man.” 

“ I shan’t take up your time,” said Rodney. “ I 
called simply to ask you to drive with me to-day. I 
shall take no excuse. I will call for you.” 

It had not been convenient for Medhurst to accept 
the invitation, but his objections had been over- 
ruled, and by half -past four that afternoon the two 
entered the park. Rodney Heriot was in a rapid, 
brilliant, and excited mood, and he had been talking 
incessantly ever since they set out. The spell of 
confession was on him, and he had been telling Med- 
hurst about the past six weeks in the country. He 
had seen a great deal of Cecil, although their tacit 
engagement had long since ended. Once free of 
him as a lover he declared that the young girl had 
liked him exceedingly. 


390 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


‘ ‘ I had exceptional opportunities for falling 
deeper and deeper in love with her,” Rodney went 
on, “but I did not use them; on the contrary, I 
exerted myself to extricate my feelings from their 
entanglement. I cured my passion by talking to her 
about you. Although I like you very well as a 
friend, Medhurst, I did not enjoy such a monopoly 
of you as the young lady gave me. I prefer to find 
my own reflection in a woman’s eyes.” 

“ I don’t in the least understand you.” 

“Unluckily I have no time to make my whole 
meaning clear. I hope you are grateful to me, — 
but who is grateful in this world ? Besides what I 
have sacrificed, what I have resigned, nobody will 
ever quite know. You have found your fitting op- 
portunity, and have shown your own powers, and I 
shall be quite forgotten.” 

The two faces were lit up, each with a different 
emotion, each with an absolutely opposite train of 
ideas. Yet the men understood each other. In a 
different way each had had something of the same 
struggle. Rodney had been driving his spirited 
horses rapidly, but now paused a little beyond the 
bridge, and seemed to be waiting for some one. 
The scene was full of charm, if Medhurst had 
not been dumb, deaf, and blind. The tints of 
red and yellow had mellowed and made various 
the green of the past summer. Many of the leaves 
had fluttered down in the September storms, and 
the thinned foliage opened lovely vistas into bridle- 
paths and pleasure-walks on every hand. 

While Medhurst was trying to speak, and utter 
something of the conflict of feeling going on 


CECIL COMES UP TO TOWN. 


391 


within him, a low, luxurious carriage, with the best 
appointments, stopped close beside them. 

“That is my mother, Medhurst,” observed Rod- 
ney. “ Suppose you get out and speak to her.” 

The younger man obeyed with some pleased sur- 
prise, took off his hat, and went up to Mrs. Est6, 
who made a marvellous picture in her bronze 
velvet, with a tiger-skin drawn over her knees. 

“O you naughty, naughty man! — to run away 
from us last summer,” she began at once, waving 
her parasol at him with little, coquettish advances, 
which he was compelled to parry. “How do 
you think poor Fanny felt? I fancy your desertion 
was what drove her to go on the stage. Shall 
you go to see her the first night? She has sent 
for me to come and see her clothes. She wants 
to make me envious. Oh, these actresses, what 
clothes they can have! They are not compelled 
to use our little economies.” 

“You block the way, mamma,” cried Rodney, 
impatiently. 

“Ah, yes, yes*! Dear Mr. Medhurst, there is a 
little girl, a guest of mine, driving with me, and as 
she is inclined to romance, I let her go wandering 
into the Ramble. She is probably by this time 
sitting on a bench under the trellis ; and will you 
go to her, and say that I will take three turns, and 
then come back for her?” 

“At your orders,” said Medhurst, starting at 
once. He glanced back at Rodney, to see if he 
had heard his mother’s command, and Rodney 
waved his hand, laughed, and drove on. The 
carriage, too, had rolled away. Medhurst was 


392 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


startled by a half-hope he tried to push away. 
Could it be — could it be? Certainly a voice 
seemed calling him from those picturesque laby- 
rinths. Quite blindly, like one in a dream, he went 
on. How was he to find the place Mrs. Este had so 
vaguely indicated, and if — if this tingle of joy 
which ran through him came from a misleading 
fancy, how was he to bear it? But the uncer- 
tainty lasted but for a moment. It would have 
been easy to mistake the way, but an unerring 
instinct had led him on. 

“ You — you here?” he saicl softly, going up to 
a young girl who was loitering along the path, 
and had not yet reached the bench under the 
trellis. 

Cecil had heard some one’s step along the gravel- 
walk. She had not turned to see who was coming, 
but yet the sound of a hasty stride behind her 
had thrilled and half-frightened her. It was not 
that she expected to see Medhurst; still, now 
that she was in New York, she might happen to 
see him. But at the sound of his voice she turned, 
lifting up her great, soft eyes, the color on her 
cheeks kindling, then fading to return and deepen. 
“ Did you know I was coming?” he asked again. 
“No — no,” said Cecil, in a foolish, trembling, 
little voice. “ Mrs. Est6 would insist that I should 
come walking here by myself — She said she 
would send for me; but I thought” — 

“ What did you think, pray ? ” 

They were looking into each other’s eyes. His 
look was fond, secure, and proud. “What did 
you think?” he insisted. 


CECIL COMES UP TO TOWN. 


393 


“ That she would send the footman for me.” 

“Are you disappointed?” said Medhurst, and 
they both laughed a little. Medhurst bent down, 
and took the little gloved hand hanging at her 
side. 

“ Is it my little Cecil?” he asked, with a thrill of 
delight, which lit up his face with loyalty and 
devotion. 

“Iam spending a day with Mrs. Est6,” Cecil 
said, quite inappositely. “I came to town with her, 
but shall go to our cousin’s to-morrow, with papa 
and mamma, who are on their way here. Papa’s 
errand is to find a publisher for his first volume. 
The new secretary has been very swift and satis- 
factory.” 

“ I am glad of that.” 

“ Even mamma likes him,” declared Cecil. 

“I see — I see,” cried Medhurst; “I have not 
been missed ! ” 

They had been walking on and on, and had now 
reached the top of a little hill. 

“ Cecil,” said Medhurst, turning to her and 
putting his hand on her shoulder, “look up at 
me.” 

She looked up. It was too real to her, too vivid, 
too overwhelming. The tears came to her eyes and 
the lids drooped over them. 

“ Heriot was generous,” Medhurst said, softly. 
“ I thought he would use his advantages.” 

Cecil said nothing. 

“ If you are not his, you shall be mine,” Med- 
hurst went on. 


394 


A MIDSUMMER MADNESS. 


There came a little, fluttering half-smile on 
Cecil’s lips. 

“ Can you — can you forgive me?” Medhurst 
asked. 

u What is there to forgive? ” 

It was easier for her than for Medhurst to claim 
her happiness and take it in. Here was what she 
had longed for close to her, kind, strong, dear, not 
to be lost again. Her drifting dreams and fancies 
had parted like the mists of dawn, and here was 
the reality. Medhurst, on the other hand, could 
realize, with terrible distinctness, the vast meaning 
and moment of this change to him. He felt 
humbled and awed by the great happiness which was 
coming to him. But yet it seemed familiar and 
natural that he should be standing there with Cecil, 
and yet there was undreamed-of eloquence and 
suggestiveness in it. There was nobody to see, he 
said to himself, and he yielded to the temptation, and, 
leaning forward, kissed the young girl on her lips. 

But some one saw, and it was Rodney Heriot. 
Mrs. Est6 was waiting, he had come to say ; it was 
growing cooler, and she wanted to go home at once, 
and Cecil must join her. When he approached the 
two he was very pale. He looked from one to the 
other and smiled. Cecil’s sweet face was wet with 
tears, and Medhurst was grave. With rather an 
inexplicable impulse Rodney took their two hands, 
which were clasped, and crushed them between both 
of his. 

u Are you ready to go home, Miss Haxtoun?” he 
then asked, with high ceremony. “ Is this little 
arrangement concluded ? ” 


CECIL COMES UP TO TOWN. 395 

But, though he showed a light heart, Rodney 
Heriot was hating the thorns, dust, and weariness of 
life which he could not throw off. He realized 
as truth, by the paiu of being compelled, what was 
false, faith by his unfaith, and the sweet rewards 
of life by his own chastisements. 



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